Reason goes before a Fall
by Lorelei Lee
Summary: John Watson is just a man. A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration has almost reached its limit. The object of his desire? Sherlock. The problem? Sherlock thinks he's straight and John doesn't think Sherlock's interested. Sherlock is just a man too, but he doesn't want to jeopardise their friendship. The solution? A prostitute who looks a lot like Sherlock.
1. I'm sinking in the Quicksand

**Summary**:

John Watson is just a man. A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration has almost reached its limit. The object of his desire? Sherlock. The problem? Sherlock thinks he's straight and John doesn't think Sherlock's interested. Sherlock is just a man too, but he doesn't want to jeopardise their friendship. The solution? A prostitute who looks a lot like Sherlock. This is never going to end well...

**Notes**:

The idea for this just came to me. Or at least, a scene in one of the last chapters just appeared in my head and then the whole story came out of that. Yeah, I know - the basic idea is pretty far-fetched, but give it a chance... there's a logical explanation for it near the end. There's going to be a lot more drama in this story than in "Never Change a Running System" and not quite as much humour, but I hope you still have fun!

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

* * *

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_Difference_

_To the eagle spoke the dove: _

_"Where thinking ceases, there begins faith."_

_"Right," he replied, "but with this difference, where you already believe, I still reason." _

Ludwig Roberg (1829)

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 1: I'm Sinking in the Quicksand of My Thoughts**

(Chapter title from 'Quicksand' by David Bowie)

A forget-me-not lies pressed between the pages of a book of poems - tucked away yet not forgotten. Ensconced between two leaves of violet tissue paper like a priceless treasure, preserving the delicate blue of the dainty blossom. The book with its mundane yet precious contents resides on the bookshelves of none other than Sherlock Holmes.

He safeguarded this specimen of the local flora with his own two hands, for the forget-me-not was the same shade of blue as the sky on the day John Watson gifted him with the flower, along with several of its sisters.

This is the story of how that came to pass.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

John set out one unseasonally mild spring evening with a deliberate goal in mind.

Blaring neon lights, questionable bars and pubs, and dark corners distinguished this part of the city.

You'd never find a regular pedestrian here. Instead, there were young men loitering around the street lamps and leaning against walls. Single or in groups. Most of them dressed skimpily, or at least with their shirts unbuttoned most of the way. Inquisitive glances were sent John's way whenever he walked past them. He'd been here fairly often, but he'd never spoken to one of those young men before. He'd tossed the idea around, but never actually acted on it.

Today was going to be different.

He was going to talk to one of the streetwalkers.

John H. Watson was, after all, just a man.

A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration had reached its limit some time ago. The object of his desire, unfortunately, was none other than his flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes. To make matters worse, Sherlock thought John was straight and only interested in women.

Nothing could be further from the truth, but the misunderstanding was entirely John's fault.

Through the course of his life, John had gained erotic experience with both women and men. To be honest, all of his interactions with men had taken place while he was a soldier. However, in contrast to most of his fellow soldiers (at least those who'd been interested in that kind of thing) who never looked at another man after they left the service, John acquired a taste for it and diagnosed himself as bisexual. Since he was wounded, though - since he was back in London - he hadn't had any intimate contact with anyone. Other problems had simply been more important, and he hadn't felt like it yet.

That all changed as soon as Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. His behaviour was even more eccentric than his appearance, yet John had found both of them quite unique and rather appealing. His interest was piqued and then utterly hijacked when Sherlock winked at him at the end of their first meeting. He could hardly have been more direct and unambiguous. And Sherlock didn't appear to be entirely disinterested, either.

The prospect of sharing a flat with this fascinating man triggered all kinds of interesting feelings in John, for the first time in a long while.

Desire was certainly one of the main ones. It didn't change anything that John knew Sherlock was in a completely different league and should have been way out of his reach. John had never much bothered himself with thinking along those lines, and had done quite well for himself as a result. His rejection rate with highly desirable women - and men - was astoundingly low.

There had to be sinister powers at work if he couldn't convince this man of his positive qualities eventually. After all, they'd be sharing a flat and spending several uninterrupted hours there every day.

The only thing that unnerved John was the suddenness with which his libido had reported back for duty after he'd thought it long since buried.

But then things had happened very quickly, and before John knew it, he found himself involved in a murder case on an altogether different sort of battlefield than what he was used to. And then there had been that dinner at Angelo's, which - in retrospect - had been nothing short of a disaster...

The dinner where he'd bollixed up any chance he had with Sherlock, once and for all. Why had he been so vehement in his denial when he was referred to as Sherlock's date?

Had the sudden, strong feelings for a man he didn't actually know at all been a little too much for him? Had he been embarrassed at how easy he was to read? Was his amorous desire written so clearly on his face? Or was it more that Sherlock had been so completely … oblivious to Angelo's remark? Neither denying nor confirming it?

John didn't know himself anymore the whys and wherefores - but his contrary nature had been aroused, and he'd protested. Only to realise a moment later that he'd just made a very, very stupid mistake.

In order to regain lost ground, he'd tried to sound Sherlock out regarding his current relationship status … even if he didn't have anyone here in London to share the rent and his bed with, it was possible he had a boyfriend or girlfriend in another part of the country.

Looking back, John had to admit that his attempt at a come-on might possibly be the worst one ever in the history of flirting. The only defence he could offer was that he'd never really flirted with a man before. He'd had good success with the direct approach in the army.

Sherlock's rejection was therefore to be expected, yet John had been so insulted that he ended up denying everything and saying he was only interested in women. He could have kicked himself for that later. But right at that moment, he wanted to:

a) save face and

b) make sure he could still flatshare with Sherlock, as even after such a short time, he couldn't imagine life without this man. Which is why he didn't hesitate to shoot Sherlock's adversary later that night, accepting the death without a flicker of conscience.

Since then, several months had passed, and his attraction to Sherlock had grown continuously rather than fading away, as he'd half hoped it would do.

He wouldn't want to give up this life for anything. The excitement, the danger, the fun they had together; not even the late-night violin playing or the human body parts in their refrigerator could dissuade him.

But most of all, he didn't want to give up the sight of Sherlock … in his pyjamas, in his dressing gown … in those suits and shirts that were all cut just a bit too tight …

But, as has already been mentioned, John H. Watson was just a man. A man who needed an outlet for his sexual frustration, and soon, before he did something extremely stupid.

It had now reached the level at which it was no longer enough for him to touch himself frantically under his sheets.

Tonight, he simply needed another cock.

He flinched at his own crudely formulated thought, but there was no way around it. It had been over a year since he'd given another man a blowjob … and he needed it tonight, or he just might go mad.

He couldn't explain it himself. Maybe it was because he felt lonely. Sherlock had left the house without him more frequently recently, sometimes murmuring something about the morgue or the lab, other times mentioning the library, research, or experiments. When John ventured to ask for details once, Sherlock had reacted in an extremely testy manner.

_"If I wanted to have to account for each and every second of my life, I could have asked Molly to move in with me." _Those were his exact words.

John had been a bit hurt, admittedly, but that's just how Sherlock was. It was possible, however, that that remark was the final straw that broke the camel's back.

John had tried to appease his reawakened libido by dating women. Of course it wasn't the same, but he still hadn't given up the hope that there would end up being one from amongst his many liaisons whom he might... whom he could see himself with...

Actually, despite his orientation, John had never doubted that he'd end up meeting a woman, falling in love, getting married, and having a family with her. As exciting as it was to be with a man, he'd never believed he'd spend the rest of his life in a happy, same-sex relationship.

Since he'd met Sherlock, the dream of a house, a wife, and the statistically expected 1.3 children had lost much of its charm.

He was annoyed over how easy it was for Sherlock to chase away all of his girlfriends (or even make John do it himself), but he didn't really try to stop it. He was still attracted to women, but it was somehow more about the excitement of the conquest rather than the satisfaction of keeping her that interested him at this point.

John had considered, now and then, trying it with a man. Maybe that would help him get over his bloody obsession with Sherlock. Of course he'd have to do it secretly, but that wouldn't pose an insurmountable problem. It would be a challenge, to be sure, to keep something like that from Sherlock, but John was certain he could do it.

And now he was walking down this street, looking for... what, exactly?

He didn't rightly know himself, but he thought he'd recognise it when he saw it. He'd briefly played with the idea of finding a young man who was tall, slender, and dark-haired, like Sherlock, but that would probably only have made him depressed. And he really didn't need to be any more depressed than he already was. So tall and brunet was right out. Should he go for the polar opposite? Short and blond? John had to bark out a laugh at that. He might as well stand in front of a mirror in that case. While he was trying to find a middle ground, a light, full-bodied laugh reached his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he registered a broad motion. He stopped where he was and turned around.

The motion and the laugh came from a man with his back turned to him. He was gesturing loosely with his left hand, in which he held a burning cigarette. John inspected the back of the … man? boy? … attentively.

Skin-tight, bleached jeans, with an open shirt made of the same material in the same colour hanging over the top of the jeans. He was tall - but probably shorter than Sherlock, as this young man was wearing black cowboy boots with high heels. He was slender and had short hair whose colour flickered between a gentle dishwater blond and a faded brown. It was about as short as - if not shorter than - Sherlock's hair, but much curlier.

One of the other men in the group surrounding him seemed to notice John looking at them, as he whispered something to the man in the faded jeans, causing him to turn around. He caught John's eye and approached him, swinging his hips.

His resemblance to Sherlock hit John almost like a physical blow. His mouth was shaped almost exactly like Sherlock's. His cheeks were a bit rounder but just as breathtaking. His movements, however, were mincing, playful, eccentric, and seductive. That, along with the hazel brown eyes and the high, bright voice - which carried a hint of a foreign accent - diminished any similarity to the detective to a very small measure.

"What can I do for you, _cheri_?" the young man asked, looking at John expectantly, his right hand braced flirtatiously on his hip. An unadorned silver chain glittered on his flawless, hairless chest.

"What's your name?" John heard himself ask.

The man smiled coyly. "What would you like me to..."

John shook his head firmly. "What's your name?" he asked again.

Something in the man's eyes shifted. "Peter," he said.

John shook his head, and the man grinned.

"Fine," he said after a moment. "Pierre. My name's Pierre. If you prefer, I can say filthy things to you with a terrible accent … or I could just speak French."

"Can't you do it without the accent?"

Pierre smiled in surprise. "Most people don't even notice it. You have a good ear." He looked at John as if anticipating something before licking his upper lip. "All right - what'll it be? Not that I want to rush you, but..."

"No, it's fine... I mean..." John stammered nervously. "I... erm... blowjob?" he said, feeling like the last idiot.

"French?" The smile again. "My speciality! I'll only do it with a johnny, though. For twenty. For thirty you can come on my face." Cool, businesslike, but still with a friendly interest.

John was ashamed to realise that his ears were getting hot. "No... not me..."

"Oh?" A look of surprise. "You want to give me one? That doesn't happen very often. All right … let's say fifteen. I wouldn't care, but... with or without?"

"With..."

"You don't need to be embarrassed about it. All right... where should we go? Do you have a car or... the landlord of that pub over there will let us use his toilet for a fiver. If you want a room it'll cost extra. We could also go over there... to the park..."

"Aren't there police in the park?"

"We have someone who plays lookout. The park then? All right, come on."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was also just a man. He'd lost his active virginity when he was seventeen. He'd kept his passive virginity two more years, in order to surrender it in a planned encounter on his nineteenth birthday.

Over the following eight years, he'd gained experience with both men and women, and determined that he found the male physique and the opportunities it offered more attractive than its female counterpart. In addition, he was hardly going to run the danger of ending up in a relationship and married to one of his male acquaintances before he'd had a chance to blink.

After those eight years, he'd lost most of his interest in sexuality and eroticism. In his opinion, he'd made a thorough study of the subject and explored every subdomain in detail. In short: the whole thing started to bore him, and so he stopped. Ever since then, he'd found it sufficient to pleasure himself every couple of weeks (luckily, his body didn't signal a need for such things more often than that), and beyond that he was married to his work - just as he'd told John that first evening.

John.

John was something else altogether.

Sherlock needed a flatmate. That's how it all started.

His old flat had become too small for all the files, masses of paper, and experiments. Not to mention that his landlord hadn't looked too kindly on the fact that his bedroom wall was no longer in its original condition following an unforeseen explosion in the course of one of the aforementioned experiments. They'd even found pieces down on the pavement outside.

His stay there was therefore cut short. Luckily, Mrs Hudson - who owed him a favour and had taken a liking to him - had an empty flat to let. The only problem was that his affairs weren't quite running according to plan, and the rent was too steep for him on his own.

Asking his brother for financial support was out of the question, so he'd have to get a flatmate. At least that was the lesser of two evils.

Sharing the flat with a woman was right out. She'd only end up demanding that the place be kept clean, and filling containers with greenery in an attempt to 'brighten things up'.

The mere thought made Sherlock shudder.

It would have to be a man. But it couldn't be anyone Sherlock would normally find attractive. After all, he didn't want to be distracted from his work. On the other hand, it shouldn't be some tiresome dunderhead. He'd end up strangling someone like that on the first day, of that Sherlock was certain.

So he asked Mike Stamford if he knew anyone...

Stamford was a bit dull, but well educated. Good-natured but no doormat. Bourgeois but not narrow-minded, and most importantly: definitely heterosexual. Sherlock was certain that Stamford only knew like-minded men, which was how he imagined the perfect flatmate to be.

And then Stamford dragged John in.

John.

Patient but used to taking orders, and with nerves of steel. A little square - good God, the man wore jumpers! - but a medical doctor, and therefore intelligent enough not to annoy Sherlock too much. Attractive? Not in the typical vein of being tall and handsome, but he still managed to arouse Sherlock's interest. A tiny bit.

That's when Sherlock should have known to stay away.

He didn't.

He even winked at him … partly to find out something about John's sexual orientation, and partly for the hell of it.

That memorable evening at Angelo's, Sherlock figured out that John was bisexual at the very least, and was definitely flirting with him.

And so Sherlock did the only smart thing - in his vaunted opinion - he'd ever done when it came to John.

He turned him down.

John had definitely been interested, and now he hid behind a mask of unmitigated heterosexuality. A mask that had so many holes in it that Sherlock was able to see through it in no time. Still, he acted as if he believed John.

He felt sorry about the rejection - and regretted it as well, in a way - but did he have any choice other than to rebuff John's amorous advances? No.

Because although he didn't want to encourage John's erotic interest, he did want to share the flat with him.

And where else was he going to come up with another flatmate who was so perfect at such short notice? Mrs Hudson wouldn't be able to keep the flat open for him forever.

Secretly, Sherlock knew that he would have had the choice to keep away from John entirely.

But again, he didn't do that.

It was quite pleasant for a change, rather than being cursed and reviled for his talents and actions, to reap honest, astonished, awestruck admiration.

And so Sherlock kept John as a flatmate, against his better judgment.

It was admittedly a weakness, but how much damage could that one little nod to his vanity do?

Unfortunately, quite a bit - as Sherlock began to realise through the months.

He started to desire John Watson.

And that was completely out of the question.

Sherlock wasn't willing to give up everything they'd achieved together - everything they were together: friends, colleagues, flatmates - merely to slake some base need.

He knew that, once a relationship - no matter what kind - failed, there was no way back to the safe haven of friendship.

The worst part was that it was easy for Sherlock to see what was going on inside John.

John was on the best way to falling in love with him.

To make matters even worse, John wasn't opposed in the least to the feelings he was developing for Sherlock. Sherlock could see that as easily as if it were written across John's forehead.

Still, John didn't stop going out with women. Sherlock had to admit it amused him how easy it was to torpedo John's relationships with those women. He enjoyed doing it, over and over again. Deep inside, he knew he shouldn't, but if he couldn't have John, he didn't want anyone to have him. Neither a woman nor a man … Sherlock hadn't quite understood, however, why John never dated a man. Of course he would have had to do it on the sly, as he was still living in a dream world in which Sherlock accepted his heterosexuality. Still... no matter how stealthy he might be... Sherlock would have known if he'd done it.

And so John was well on his way to developing feelings for him.

Sherlock couldn't allow that to happen. The status quo of their friendship couldn't be allowed to be endangered or interfered with in any way; even so, both men were drawn more and more to each other. No matter how much Sherlock fretted over it, he couldn't see how to break the spiral that was leading them straight to disaster.

On the one hand, both men needed an outlet for all of the pent-up sexual tension. On the other hand, Sherlock needed to make sure that John didn't leave him for someone else. He wanted John, the man. And he wanted him all for himself. But he knew if he gave in to that desire, he'd only end up destroying their unique friendship and successful cooperation in the long run … and if John left him some day … then he'd be left without the man, without a friend, without a blogger.

He wanted the man, but he also wanted to keep his friend.

It was like squaring the circle - or put more simply: Sherlock wanted to have his cake and eat it too.

An insoluble dilemma.

At least that's how it appeared.

But then Sherlock observed something, as accidental as it was illuminating, and he came up with the perfect plan by dint of his perfect intelligence.

Unfortunately, it's always the perfect plans that end up failing catastrophically.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**to be continued… **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**(Updates: every Thursday)**


	2. The Boy in the Bright Blue Jeans

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 2: The Boy in the Bright Blue Jeans**

(Chapter title from 'Lady Stardust' by David Bowie)

As John followed Pierre into the park, he felt as if he were walking through a dreamscape. His head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, his feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he walked, and the only sounds he registered seemed to be distant and muffled.

The edges of his field of vision blurred, and the only thing he could see clearly were the swaying hips in those skin-tight, faded jeans in front of him, glowing dully like a will-o-the-wisp in the darkness of the park.

John hoped that glow wasn't going to lead him down to his destruction, but he couldn't be sure. Still, he followed unerringly, further onward, deeper into the bushes, until they came upon a hidden park bench.

Pierre stopped and turned to him. "Money," he said, adding, "please," after a moment. He held out his right hand and flicked his fingers impatiently.

John pressed the notes into his hand. Pierre only glanced at them briefly before he stuck them into the right breast pocket of his shirt. John was relieved, somehow, that he hadn't checked the amount. He had the distinct feeling that such a display of distrust would have insulted him. Pierre removed a sealed condom from the left-hand pocket of his shirt.

"Do you want to - or should I?" he asked softly.

"You..." John answered uncertainly. The thought of touching Pierre's flaccid penis and having to work it until it was hard enough to put the condom on put him off. He wanted to maintain at least a tiny bit of the illusion, wanted to be able to convince himself for a little bit longer that the other man wanted it too... was already eagerly awaiting him … John knew that was completely ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.

Pierre simply gave him a Gallic shrug and opened the button and flies of his jeans.

John swallowed hard.

No underwear.

Shaved clean.

And an erection he hadn't counted on and which he was surprised even had space in those jeans.

Pierre sighed in relief as well as arousal once he'd freed his penis all the way. A knowing smile passed over his lips.

"Surprised?"

"A little," John admitted and cleared his throat.

"I like you. That makes it easy," Pierre said, shoved his jeans down to his knees, sat down on the bench with his legs spread, tore open the packet with his teeth and rolled the condom down over his stiff member. "All right … go for it," he whispered hoarsely, and John dropped to his knees in front of him without another word.

His heart was beating hard - almost painfully - against his ribs and his senses were so sharply attuned that he felt dizzy for a brief moment. But then he grabbed Pierre's erection with one hand and everything else faded into a strange grey fog.

Pierre moaned softly, and John looked up. The young man's head was tilted back, hanging over the back of the bench. The silver chain glittered for a moment in the moonlight before blurring into the pale skin of the bare chest. John's eyes slid over it - over the exposed throat presented before him - up to the plump lower lip that looked so much like Sherlock's, and which a row of even teeth were biting into at the moment.

Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and thought of things he was ashamed of in the cold light of day, but which nevertheless kept him up at night.

Because the longer he looked, the more he realised that there wasn't a single man in all of London who could even come close to Sherlock's level.

Probably not in all of Britain.

Sherlock.

The man who set John before a conundrum.

John kept coming back to Angelo's remark. He even tried his hand at the art of deduction.

The facts were as follows:

- Angelo had thought he was Sherlock's date.

- Angelo had known Sherlock for years.

- Sherlock had eaten at Angelo's before.

Therefore, Angelo must have had reason to believe Sherlock would invite a man on a date.

And the conclusion?

Sherlock must be bisexual at the very least, just like he was. But the reality was that John had never noticed any signs at all. Despite the fact that Sherlock sometimes expressed himself in an unconventional manner and often acted eccentric enough, he'd never noticed him taking an amorous interest in anyone.

Contraindications:

- John had seen Sherlock flirting with Molly.

Did Sherlock fancy women after all?

On the other hand, Sherlock only turned on his charm when he wanted to get something. That's what was going on with Molly. He'd never gone out with her or chatted with her just for the sake of it.

Were there any other possibilities?

That's why John kept coming back to the suspicion that Sherlock might well be asexual.

But then he thought of that charm again. That smile. That honest interest in John and his opinions.

But there was never a Look … a heavy look, a knowing look, a look that John would recognise and know what it meant. He'd seen enough of those looks in his life.

But a look like that never turned up. Persistent in its absence.

Might Sherlock live in a kind of voluntary, self-imposed celibacy because he really, truly was irrevocably married to his work?

No matter what the reason was for the absence of the Look - whether he was straight, gay, or ace - none of them made John any happier. And so he gave up his attempts at deduction and started taking long, lonely walks instead.

And that's how he ended up here, with a hard cock in front of his lips. He opened his mouth and steered it in.

He groaned involuntarily. God - how had he done without this all that time? How?

He greedily took in more of the hard length until his gag reflex stopped him.

Everything in him cried out for MORE, but try as he might, he couldn't. John had had cause to regret that more than once in his life. He slid back slowly before settling into a kind of rhythm. Over and over again, he released the erection completely in order to tease just the tip with his tongue.

A throaty groan reached his ears, but that was all he heard from the other man.

A hand rested on John's head, and he knew it wasn't going to take much longer. He regretted, just for a moment, that he wouldn't be able to taste the other man's climax, but then the stranger's fingers clenched in his hair, and he forgot all about that thought.

His hand stroked lightly over the surprisingly cool thigh before reaching the plump, full testicles, whose heat formed an exciting contrast to the rest of the body and the chilly night air.

Gently, yet firmly, he put his fingers around them and tugged. A surprised gasp for air and a guttural moan were the only reactions, yet they were quite satisfactory. As full and tight as those balls were already, it wouldn't take much longer at all.

John lamented it a bit - he would rather have drawn it out longer; he liked it when his partner almost went mad with desire. It gave him a feeling of power that couldn't be matched by anything else in the world.

The stranger's fingers crept down his neck and the hips jerked automatically, impatiently. John let go of his balls and held onto the other man's thighs with both hands. He wanted to feel him deep in his throat, but he didn't want to choke if he were hit by a poorly timed thrust.

_Deeper, a little deeper..._ John breathed in and out deliberately through his nose. Then he swallowed around the hot, hard length in his throat.

A groan.

He swallowed again.

An unintelligible, suppressed curse.

John would have liked to grin, but his lips were really not in a position to do so at the moment.

He swallowed again and went just a bit deeper. Then he hummed.

Yes.

That was it.

It was like something was expanding, swelling, then another hoarse moan and then a convulsive shudder in his throat.

John pulled back a bit and moaned in bliss.

Yes.

That's exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he needed.

A soft sigh, then: "_Mon dieu_... you really like to give head, _n'est-ce pas_? You suck like the devil himself."

An unwelcome heat rose to John's cheeks. He wasn't used to hearing such blunt words in this context. However, as they hadn't been delivered with any bite - more like surprise - John was able to suppress his embarrassment and take the remark as a compliment. He even managed to feel a little bit of happiness and pride about it.

His knees protesting gently, John got up and watched Pierre roll off the condom, knot it, and put it into the pocket of his shirt.

When he noticed John's quizzical look, he remarked with a peculiar expression, "We don't want to pollute the environment." Then he stood up and pulled his jeans back up. His gaze fell on John's groin.

Pierre pursed his lips, and before John knew what was happening, the other man reached between his legs.

John sucked his breath in suddenly between his teeth, as he hadn't even noticed until that moment that he was hard.

"Shouldn't I...?" Pierre asked in a rough voice - John was sure he was just putting it on - and gently kneaded the bulge between his legs through the material of his trousers.

John groaned without even meaning to.

No, this wasn't what he'd planned. He hadn't thought it would arouse him so much to suck off a prostitute. The original plan had simply been to do it, to store the experience in his brain, and then later … in the privacy of his bedroom, to map Sherlock's face onto the stranger's and masturbate to the resulting mental image. He'd hoped it would give him relief and restore a certain balance to his soul, but now everything in his head was topsy-turvy.

He'd never thought he'd find anyone who resembled Sherlock so closely that he could almost do without the Photoshop job in his head.

Should he?

Here, in a public park?

Did John H. Watson do things like this?

Before returning to London, the list of _'Things That John H. Watson Would Never Do'_ had been considerably longer. But after meeting Sherlock, the list shrank practically from one day to the next.

Did he want this?

He automatically pressed himself closer to the fingers caressing him.

"A hand job? For a fiver?" Pierre purred, scattering all his illusions like so much mist on a sunny morning.

John opened his eyes, dazed. When had he closed them?

A pair of brown eyes looked directly at him. Calculating, curious, maybe even a little bit hungry … of course only for the additional easy money.

John swallowed. No, this was not his lover. It wasn't even a one-night stand he'd pulled in a bar. This was a prostitute who didn't do these things because he wanted to, but because he got money for them.

Of course John knew all that. But for some reason, now that he'd actually done it, it all seemed more real … more comprehensible and at the same time incomprehensible.

"No," John said, shaking his head.

Pierre appeared to be disappointed and pulled his hand back. John slapped himself mentally on the forehead. Of course he was disappointed. It would have been easy money.

"What's your name anyway?" Pierre wanted to know, produced a cigarette from somewhere and slipped it between his lips without lighting it.

"John."

"John..." Pierre repeated with a smile. The way he said it, it sounded more like _Jean_. John wasn't sure he liked it. It sounded softer and more gentle than he was used to his name sounding.

Pierre removed the cigarette from between his lips, and a pink, pointed tongue fished around on the plump lower lip for a stray flake of tobacco.

"So... John. Are you from around here?" Pierre then asked with his high, clear voice, so painfully different from Sherlock's pleasing baritone. "I mean..." Pierre bit his lip and flinched a bit.

John only noticed now how dark and red the other man's lip was. He must have been chewing on it the whole time so as not to cry out. Again, a feeling of pride flowed through John's body.

"Will we see each other again?" Pierre finished his sentence, returning the cigarette to its place between his lips. A lighter appeared out of nowhere in the same manner as the cigarette had, but he didn't use it yet.

"I don't know..." John said slowly. Oh, no! No way. This was a one-off. He'd never do anything like this again. This had been a huge mistake in the first place, and no one could ever know about it. Never. Under no circumstances. "I don't think so..." John answered. "No." But even as he said the word, he knew it was a lie.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

To be continued...

End notes:

I have no idea how things work with male prostitution in London. I tried using Google, but I don't think I was using the right search terms. I don't know how things are set up there or what the prices are like, so I made everything up. If anyone knows better - let me know! I'm happy for any hints.

By the way… Favs and followers are nice – but a review/comment now and then is even nicer. Thanks for reading! It would be great if you'll let me know what you like (or not) about my fic).


	3. How you turned my world you precious

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

* * *

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 3: How you turned my world you precious thing**

(Chapter title from 'Within you' by David Bowie)

* * *

A short while after his trick left, Pierre entered a dilapidated rental property a few streets away, went up a shabby staircase and through the door to a flat on the third floor.

A heavy scent of musk hit him, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"_Ola_!" said the man who'd pointed John out to him. "_Well? How'd it go_?"

"Ramon, your fake accent is getting worse every day," Pierre replied dryly.

Ramon laughed.

"I have to keep in practise," he said, his English suddenly perfect. "So? How was it? Did everything work?"

"It couldn't have gone better." Without meaning to, Pierre closed his eyes for a moment and a soft sigh escaped his lips.

Ramon grinned. "Good for you. My cut?" The words were accompanied by a somewhat apologetic look. "Good business makes for good friends," he added. "The rent doesn't pay itself, and since you've moved in here with me..."

"As if I were a burden..." Pierre drawled, but it sounded good-natured. He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out the used condom.

"Oh man, no... you can keep that," Ramon exclaimed, pretending to be disgusted. "I want cash on the barrelhead."

"Very funny," Pierre said with a grimace. "I just got the wrong pocket." He reached into his other pocket and produced the fifteen pounds. He held the notes out to Ramon. "Here. You can have all of it if you want."

"If I..." Ramon grabbed the money and counted it. "Give it here. I'm dying for a new nipple ring."

Pierre pulled a face but didn't say anything. His eye fell once again on the used condom in his other hand.

"But whether you want me to or not - I'm going to have to get rid of this here. I don't want my DNA to end up in the wrong hands."

"You're a pretty paranoid bugger, you know that?" Ramon said as if it didn't matter to him one way or the other.

"There's too much at stake," Pierre replied with a peculiar smile. "I can't afford any mistakes here."

"You do realise you're kind of creepy sometimes," Ramon said with the same unshakeable equanimity.

"If you say so," was all Pierre said and started to get undressed.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

During the following week, John was able to convince himself that _The Thing_ - as he privately referred to his first experience with sex for hire - was a one-off and had had the desired effect.

The memory of that evening had enriched his masturbatory fantasies many times over. Seen from that perspective, the fifteen pounds had certainly been a good investment. His bedroom - and shower - activities were much more satisfactory now, and led to him feeling more stable and even-tempered, and not just around Sherlock.

He was able to deal with the tight shirts, the pyjama trousers, and the dressing gown with sangfroid, and even dared to hope that he might be cured of his unhappy enthusiasm for his friend... until the cloudy Tuesday afternoon when Sherlock thought it might be a good idea to jump, fully clothed, into the Serpentine in Hyde Park to dive for evidence.

A short while earlier, he and Sherlock had been riding in a police car (unmarked, at Sherlock's insistence) with Lestrade and Donovan and had just turned off _West Carriage Drive_ onto one of the footpaths. Scotland Yard had received an anonymous tip regarding _'The Missing Bride_' - a case that the tabloids had been screaming about over the past few days, keeping London breathless.

Sherlock's investigations - which he'd initiated at the groom's request - had led in the same direction as the police at almost exactly the same time, and so they'd ended up - along with a few junior officers who'd secured the area before they arrived - standing on the shore of the lake near the Serpentine Bridge, staring out at the nebulous waters.

Lestrade had just ordered a dive team on his phone, as there was nothing to be seen from the shore no matter how hard they looked, when without warning, Sherlock - as mentioned - jumped headfirst and fully clothed into the rather murky waters and disappeared from sight.

"What the... John!" Lestrade yelled, exasperated, sending a furious glare in John's direction. The only sign left of Sherlock were a few bubbles on the surface of the lake.

"What am I supposed to do?" John retorted, equally exasperated. "Jump in too?"

"I already called for the divers!" Lestrade bristled. "He heard me, didn't he? He was standing right next to me! John! You heard me too..."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes - I head you call for the divers. He did too. But... Jesus …Greg! You know how he is!"

Lestrade groaned and passed one hand over his eyes. "Sally?" He turned to Sally Donovan. "Do we have a blanket or something in the car?"

"How should I know?" Donovan retorted stroppy.

Lestrade lowered his hand and gave Donovan a baleful look. "Maybe by going and having a look?" he asked with such deliberate politeness that Donovan and John both flinched at the tone.

"How's it my business if the freak..." Donovan began to say just as they were interrupted by one of the junior officers.

"Erm, sir..." he addressed Lestrade, somewhat uneasily.

"Yes, what is it?" Lestrade snapped in reply.

"Sir... he's been down there pretty long now," the officer pointed out, jerking his thumb in the direction of the air bubbles … or at least toward the spot where the air bubbles had been. "I just thought... maybe we should also call for an ambulance."

Lestrade gave John a look that was equal parts question and dismay. "How long can a person stay under?"

John didn't answer. He was staring desperately at the surface of the water, hoping to see any fresh air bubbles.

"Dammit! How long can _he_ stay under?" Lestrade yelled.

"I didn't even know he could swim!" John shot back. "How am I supposed to know how long he..."

Just then, Sherlock's head broke through the surface, his mouth popped open and gulped in air, and then he disappeared again.

"I'm going to kill him," John groaned in relief.

"Back of the queue. Me first," Lestrade growled. Then he gave John an odd look. "Where do you think I have all these grey hairs from?"

John erupted in laughter at that, and after a moment's hesitation, Lestrade joined in. "It's pretty amazing you're still so blond, John," he remarked between peals of laughter even as John wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Freaks... all of you," Sally Donovan muttered to herself, but she went to the car, shaking her head in annoyance, to look for a blanket for the head freak.

When Sherlock came up the next time, he stayed on the surface and swam to the shore with powerful strokes. Once there, he tossed a wet bundle of cloth at Lestrade's feet.

"The lady's wedding dress. That should be enough evidence," he said in his usual condescending manner. "You can call off the divers you sent for so precipitously." The expression on his face screamed _'I was right again_,' and while Lestrade set about untangling the dress, John didn't know whether he should strangle Sherlock or yell at him or both.

But then Sherlock took his jacket off to wring it out, and the words died in John's throat before he could say them. For just then, the sun broke through the clouds, sending down a sunbeam that refracted in all the countless drops of water suspended in Sherlock's hair and running down his face and neck. Just for a moment, the drips and droplets glittered and sparkled like diamonds. And very briefly, a glittering, silver chain rose to the surface of John's subconscious and his gaze drifted downward. Over Sherlock's hair and face, down his neck to the white shirt, which was now sticking to him like a gossamer veil, leaving nothing to the imagination and giving any wet t-shirt contest a run for its money.

John's mouth went dry and he swallowed hard.

Sherlock tossed his jacket carelessly to the ground and then - to add insult to injury - ran both his hands through his hair.

John hurried to disguise his gasp of arousal as a coughing fit.

Sherlock repeated the hands-in-the-hair motion, stretching his entire body and straining his shirt - which was already too tight - to its utmost limits.

John knew it would be better for his peace of mind if he looked away, but his gaze was stuck fast to Sherlock's shirt and everything that was so clearly - and alluringly - outlined beneath it. He swallowed again, but this time it wasn't because his throat had gone dry with desire. Now he needed to swallow because his mouth was watering at the sight.

When Sherlock finally let go of his hair, he dragged one hand across his chest, and John had to make a concerted effort to suppress a lusty groan.

"John, I'm cold," Sherlock grumbled, and as if on command, his nipples - which were readily apparent through his wet shirt - contracted to small, hard points, and John felt way too much blood for the time and place surge into his groin as his thoughts drifted off to erotic domains.

"John!" Sherlock complained again, as John hadn't answered him yet.

John slowly found his way back to reality. In his daydream, he and Sherlock had been on a tropical beach and had been...

"What?"

"I'm cold!" Sherlock repeated, his impatience sneaking into his tone.

"And what exactly am I supposed to do about it? Chop down a tree and make a fire?" John retorted in annoyance. "It's May! We're in England! Of course it's chilly. The bathing season doesn't begin for four weeks - if it opens at all. Sherlock! The divers were already on their way. No one asked you to jump into the bloody lake. You could have waited half an hour!"

"You could give me your jacket," Sherlock said, ignoring John's tirade.

"In your dreams!" John hissed. "Donovan's looking for a blanket for you in the car."

Sherlock pouted for a moment before resorting to begging. "Jooooohn... You don't want me to get sick, do you?" he insinuated, sniffling deeply.

John was temporarily torn. "Who knows what else is floating in that lake, starting with all the e-coli," he pointed out. "Plus, this is a suede jacket, you'll ruin it if you get it all wet." And aside from these quite reasonable objections, he _really, really, really_ wanted to stare at those hard little nipples under the see-through shirt a little while longer. Just a tiny bit longer... God, he was even disgusting himself - but he couldn't help it.

Fortunately, before Sherlock could say anything else, Donovan came back and threw the blanket at his head with surprising vehemence.

Sherlock pulled the blanket off, unfolded it, and wrapped it around his body.

A soft sigh of regret escaped John's lips. It appeared the show was over.

Sherlock shot an evil glare in Donovan's direction, where she had just joined Lestrade with the wedding dress.

"The way she was squirming around on her seat in the car before, she must have carpet burn on her..." Sherlock muttered spitefully.

"Sherlock!" John warned him before he could complete the sentence.

"It's true! Doesn't Anderson have a bed at his flat?" Sherlock groused. "Why does it always have to be the floor?"

John rolled his eyes. "Could be the throes of passion," he suggested.

"Passion? Ugh!" Sherlock said scornfully. "Just because they jump each other right inside the door? I'd call that something else."

"Oh yeah?" John asked, intrigued. "What?"

"Time pressure," Sherlock answered dryly.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

That evening, John wasn't sure which of the two options described him and Pierre.

Was it passion or time pressure that made him snatch Pierre's cigarette as soon as he saw him, throw it into the gutter, and shove the man himself into the next alley? Even though he'd planned - with the image of Sherlock's wet shirt in mind - to take Pierre up to a room and let himself be spoilt rotten.

The black jeans and the flimsy silk shirt that graced Pierre's body reminded John much too closely - and vividly - of what had happened that afternoon, and the arousal he'd been struggling to quash down for hours flared up like embers that had been left glowing unattended until a fresh gust of air fanned them into a blazing fire.

Desire and pleasure roared through John's body like a destructive inferno. No sooner were they in a dark corner, more or less shielded from prying eyes, than John pressed his groin against the bulge in the black jeans with feverish impatience.

"Take it out... yours too... put your hand around both of them," John told him in a low voice, urging, demanding. His hands rested on Pierre's arse while the other man struggled with both sets of flies. When he finally completed his task, a dual sigh rang out into the mild spring night.

John's hands squeezed harder, pulling Pierre closer.

"Wait... condoms," Pierre groaned.

The sensation of that hot, hard length slowly rubbing against his own stiff member was indescribable. John's left hand slid over the diabolical silk shirt up to Pierre's neck.

"It's safe enough like this," he whispered, pulling Pierre's head down closer without even thinking about it.

"Don't..." Pierre breathed out, barely audible, turning his head aside at the last second so that John's kiss only touched his cheek. "Don't..." he said again softly; it sounded a little sad.

That sobered John up enough to realise that condoms really weren't such a bad idea after all - even if what he had planned was safe enough. He leaned back a bit, just enough to give Pierre some room to work, and enjoyed the sensation of the unfamiliar hands rolling the latex sheath down over his erection. After Pierre was set as well, he seized the initiative and pushed up against John in a highly erotic manner.

"All right... where were we?" he growled playfully in John's ear, nibbling at his earlobe. "Didn't you say something about putting my hand on it?"

"Christ... yes..." John panted, rearing back a bit when he felt a hand reach for him and start to stroke him gently. Then the grip became more firm and tight, and in the place of the thumb he felt another hard, hot length being pressed mercilessly against his impatiently throbbing cock.

It was just as good as he remembered.

Warm desert nights in the shelter of the barracks, the patrol bribed with cigarettes so they wouldn't check that corner of the camp for the next ten minutes; the impatience, the craving, the ecstasy, the stubble against sweaty skin, the twitch of another cock against his own pent-up lust, condoms or a tissue so as not to stain their uniforms, the underlying thrill of the illicit, the fear of being caught, the soft sounds, the hesitant, choked-off moans...

But the images that ran in his mind's eye there in that alley between rubbish bins, as he shouted out his overpowering climax into the night, weren't from Afghanistan. They belonged so intrinsically to England as a steady rain on green meadows, five o'clock tea with scones and clotted cream, Big Ben...

_'Sherlock_!' he cried inside his mind. _'Sherlock_!'

Sherlock - with his wet shirt, the drops of water in his hair, the small, hard nipples, so thoroughly British with his pale, aristocratic skin and blue-green eyes that were often as unfathomable as the little lake where John had often gone fishing as a boy … those eyes that could look deep into his soul and still not see everything...

And at that moment - in the arms of a prostitute, in one of London's back alleys, depleted and satiated by a spectacular orgasm, his penis softening inside the condom - John didn't know whether he should be grateful for his friend's particular blind spot or not.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_

End notes: The wedding gown that gets fished out of the Serpentine is meant to be a nod to the original canon story, "_The Noble Bachelor_" (one of the German titles of which would mean _'The Missing Bride'_).


	4. When God did take my logic for a ride

___**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

* * *

******Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

******Chapter 4: When God did take my logic for a ride**

(Chapter title from 'Width of a Circle' by David Bowie)

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

After that evening, John stopped pretending to himself. Since he couldn't have Sherlock, he was going to have the next best thing - and that was Pierre. John had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't going to end well, but in his present state of mind, he was simply powerless against his body, his thoughts, and himself. He needed this. He needed the release, he needed the feeling of being completely free, even if it was for a very short time. He just knew there was no other way for him to remain sane.

On the one hand, it was a shame that the understudy to his ideal counterpart was a prostitute; on the other hand, it was probably a good thing, because otherwise John had the feeling he would have at least attempted to start a relationship with Pierre. And that would have meant, in effect, deciding between Pierre and Sherlock. Which would have been completely impossible.

And so he made do with going to Pierre on a semi-regular basis. Usually following some incident with Sherlock. It didn't even matter whether they'd argued or whether Sherlock had unintentionally set off his libido in some way or another.

It also happened that he didn't always find Pierre, so that he sometimes had to return home without having achieved what he set out for - irritated, out of sorts, and dissatisfied. It had even happened that one of the other young men told him Pierre would be right there, and he should wait for him.

Sometimes he waited, but sometimes he didn't, as it put him off to think of touching Pierre when he was still hot off another man, in a manner of speaking.

He was generally able to maintain the illusion that Pierre was his exclusively, not shared with anyone else in the world. The thought that that might not be the case was the most disturbing of all, because deep down, John was faithful. He valued monogamy and exclusivity - he didn't like to share, and he actually expected the same of his partners.

The astonishing thing was the fact that none of the other prostitutes approached him even when Pierre wasn't around. In fact, quite the opposite was the case. More than once, the other men had offered to send Pierre a text to let him know John was there. John had always turned down the well-meant service, however.

He could only explain their unusual solidarity and assistance by presuming they sensed a romance that they wanted to help along. John decided to let them continue to think so, even if it wasn't the truth.

Still, John couldn't disguise the fact that he was interested in Pierre as a person too, and had learned quite a bit about him over the course of those weeks.

His mother was French, his father British - from Wales, in fact. He grew up in France, as his parents were divorced, and came to London as a student … and ended up staying. Exactly how he'd ended up turning tricks, and whether it was his only source of income, as well as what he'd studied, were subjects on which he remained stubbornly silent.

Pierre had only shared this information with him little by little, as it happened once in a while that they would chat a bit either at the beginning or end of one of their meetings. They never really talked for long, as Pierre always rushed to get on, with the gentle reminder that he had _things to do_. But it was enough to awaken in John not only an interest in Pierre but somewhat warmer feelings as well.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

"What am I supposed to do with a fruit basket? Do you suppose I can pay the rent with it?" Sherlock asked with frigid politeness.

It didn't really help things that he was dressed only in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers, and a dressing gown. He should have looked ridiculous, by all rights, but oddly enough his casual attire only underscored the accusation underlying his complaint - as if he were a penniless artist … starving and in dire financial straits.

"Sherlock, I already received the cheque," John hissed at him insistently before turning to the older couple sitting on their sofa who were staring at him, horrified and insulted. "He means: You really shouldn't have," John translated for them with a broad, somewhat helpless grin.

And it had been such a nice case! John already had a title for his next blog entry: '_The Norwood Brewers_'. Sherlock would surely have something to nitpick about it, but it really did concern a missing recipe that had been handed down through the family for a special, homemade beer; an international beverage company; market shares and competition; and the charming husband and wife brewing team who were currently sitting on their sofa in a state of utter confusion.

It was quite unusual, actually, that Sherlock cared so much about the payment. He generally didn't fuss about it, often didn't even send a bill. But John didn't so much as bat an eyelash at such discrepancies anymore, given Sherlock's mercurial personality.

The master brewer stared at him, nonplussed, and scratched his head.

"My wife just thought as Mr Holmes helped us so much..."

"I thought you'd be pleased," the woman chimed in reproachfully.

"He is... that is, _we are_. We're really very pleased by your kind gesture," John rushed to assure her, jabbing Sherlock rather firmly in the ribs.

"Just make them leave," Sherlock told John, not even bothering to lower his voice. "I have an experiment that can't be put off any longer without losing all the results." And with those words, he exited to the kitchen, his dressing gown billowing around him, sat down at the kitchen table and directed his full attention to his microscope.

John sighed, put a big, fake smile on his face, and ushered the couple out of the flat with long-winded excuses and expressions of gratitude.

"Was that really necessary?" he called into the kitchen afterwards.

"Yes," came the cynical reply. "They never would have left otherwise."

"And what exactly is this important experiment?" John asked as he took down a book from the shelf and sat down in his armchair.

"You wouldn't understand it," Sherlock retorted curtly.

"Yeah, thanks for that," John shot back sarcastically and sighed in exasperation.

Peace settled over the flat for a while. John was actually able to read an entire chapter before Sherlock came out of the kitchen into the living room. His hair was completely tangled, as if he'd been rummaging around in it with both hands … _or as it might look following a wild night_ … John substituted the image, only to kick himself for it a moment later.

How long had it been since he'd last seen Pierre?

Without taking any notice of what was going on around him, Sherlock stared at the paper in his right hand, frowning. John could only see that the page was covered from top to bottom in Sherlock's writing. Most of it appeared to be formulae and scribbled diagrams.

John couldn't help grinning when he saw Sherlock's left hand reach absently into the spurned fruit basket and come out with a banana. His gaze still fixed on the paper, he set it down on the fruit basket for a moment so he could use both hands to peel the banana. Then he picked the paper up again, although he stayed there in the middle of the living room, the banana in his left hand and the paper in the right.

With an expectant grin, John watched the further developments over the edge of his book, making secret bets with himself. Would Sherlock actually eat the banana, or would he put it back? If he did mean to eat it, would he even get it in his mouth, as distracted as he was? Or would the banana end up somewhere else? In his eye? His nose? In his hair? John choked back a chuckle. It was of utmost importance that he not draw any attention to himself, otherwise the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle would come into effect and put an end to his pure, unbiased observation.

There!

Sherlock lifted the hand with the banana toward his mouth.

Closer... closer... just a little more... his mouth opened...

Then he lowered his hand again.

John grinned. This was even more fun and exciting than he'd thought it would be.

Oh! Another attempt!

So soon after the first? Sherlock must really be hungry.

The banana came closer to his mouth... His mouth opened again...

A frown, a snort of annoyance … the hand went back down.

Sherlock lifted the banana toward his mouth three more times with little effect, and all of a sudden John didn't find it funny anymore; instead, he found it unintentionally arousing. Images formed in his head in which the banana inexplicably became a very masculine body part.

John swallowed hard, and now it wasn't a chuckle that he had to choke back but a very unmanly whimper.

And Sherlock lifted the banana to his mouth one more time.

Oh God! His mouth opened … the banana touched his lips, which closed ever so slightly around it... sucked on it for a fraction of a second … and … nothing! Again, nothing! Back to the beginning.

John tried to cross his legs as inconspiciously as possible in order to hide certain physical changes his body was undergoing from too close inspection. Yes - he could have left the room … he could have cleared his throat to distract Sherlock completely from the banana, but he couldn't bring himself to do either one or the other.

It started again.

Banana … mouth... lips parting … touching the banana... John felt a drop of sweat run down his left temple, and his heart rate increase.

Sherlock's hand sank a bit … then moved back toward his mouth... the banana bumped against those plump lips again... they opened once more... a rosy, pointed tongue appeared and … JESUS CHRIST! - licked the tip of the banana. Once, twice, three times...

"WILL YOU JUST EAT THE BLOODY BANANA!" John yelled, finally having arrived at the end of his rope.

Sherlock started so hard at the unexpected uproar that the banana flew across the living room and landed on the couch. Blue-green eyes flung themselves wide open and stared at John in shock.

"It's true!" John tried to justify himself, covering the enormous bulge in his trousers more or less successfully with his book. "Either eat it or put it away. You shouldn't play with your food."

It looked like Sherlock hesitated for a heartbeat before answering, but then he hissed back, "Have you gone mad?! What's got into you? I'm working here! Now I can start all over again, thank you very much!"

"No, please, my pleasure," John returned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I can't even work in peace here!" Sherlock cried - embodying the role of the insulted, misunderstood genius to the hilt. "I'm off to the lab."

"Say hello to Molly and put something on first," John nagged. "If they arrest you for indecent exposure - I'm not posting bail."

"The mark of a true friend!" Sherlock retorted sarcastically, striding into his bedroom with his dressing gown billowing dramatically around him. "Don't wait up!"

"As if I would," John snarked after him before sinking back down into his armchair and trying to carefully nudge his almost painful hard-on into a more comfortable position in his too-tight trousers. God, why did the man drive him so insane?

It was really about time. He'd go for another walk tonight.

Hopefully Pierre wouldn't be busy elsewhere.

**OooOOOOooOOOOooOOOOoo**

Hot skin. Full lips. Unbearable arousal. Soft moans. Perspiration on naked bodies. The barely audible sound of a condom wrapper being opened. Surprisingly gentle hands. Finally...

Tongue, lips, mouth... hot, wet, arousing.

A hint of teeth.

Perfect.

The thrill of the illicit and lust in perfect balance.

Tongue, hands, lips.

A look. A question in those eyes. Another hard length pressing against John's thigh.

A pause.

The first reaction: Yes! Yes!

Then... a return to his senses.

A shake of his head.

Not now. Not tonight.

Tonight just this...

He understood. He always understood.

Nothing more than tongue, lips and mouth.

Now only a single hand caressed John's body in gentle circles.

The mattress quivered with the rhythm of a second set of movements.

A second moan mixed in with the sound of John's own gasps.

Shaking, trembling, vibrating.

Tongue, lips, and mouth.

Yes.

Yes!

YES!

Relief, release, redemption.

It took a while for John to become aware of his surroundings again.

The shabby hotel room with its single naked, weakly glowing bulb hanging from the ceiling, the faded wallpaper on the wall. The bed with the surprisingly clean sheets and the lumpy mattress.

The condom, still wet with Pierre's saliva, was already starting to feel unpleasantly cold on his softening penis.

Beside his legs was Pierre himself.

And between his legs was a wet spot of Pierre's semen on the sheets.

"That was highly unprofessional of me," Pierre whispered against his thigh. "I hope it doesn't bother you."

"It surprised me, that's all," John replied. He felt drained and pleasantly sleepy. His fingers drifted absently through Pierre's hair in an affectionate gesture.

A shrug. "I like you, John. You're nice. And tonight you were so..." Another shrug. "I just got carried away."

"Mmhh," said John. His eyes fell shut.

"You paid for the room for an hour... we've only used half of it. Do you want to go again?"

John chuckled softly. "I wish I could."

"All right, then..." Pierre got up and picked up his jeans and shirt from the floor.

"Do you really have to go already?" John heard himself ask. What was he doing? Flirting with a streetwalker? "Stay a bit."

"Why?" Pierre asked without looking at him. He was buttoning up his shirt.

"We could talk … just chat a bit."

Pierre sighed softly. "It's not a good idea." He slipped into his shoes and went to the door. "Don't be angry. But you know yourself it's not a good idea. I hope..." He bit his lower lip briefly. "We'll still see each other again?"

John nodded. As long as he shared a flat with Sherlock, he could pretty much guarantee he'd be taking advantage of Pierre's services on a more or less regular basis. It was either that or go mad. There were no two ways about it.

**OooOOOOooOOOoooOOOOoo**

When Ramon came into the flat in the early morning hours, the man who'd been calling himself Pierre for the past several weeks was sitting on the couch, his legs pulled up, looking utterly miserable.

"What are you still doing here?" Ramon asked. "I thought you'd be long gone by now. Did something happen?"

"He's starting to develop feelings for me," the other man answered dully.

Ramon rolled his eyes. "I told you from the beginning not to get mixed up in this!" he cried in dismay. "Tricks and hookers … you have to leave emotions out of it. But you... you said, _'I have it all under control, don't worry_.' And now? Was I right or what?"

"Yes, you were right! Are you happy now?"

"Fuck no!"

Silence reigned for several seconds.

Then Ramon said, "Are you going to see him again?"

The other man nodded.

"Lord help us all," Ramon swore.

"Leave God out of it," Pierre said, his disapproval clear.

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

Chapter end notes: The blog title refers to "The Norwood Builder."

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**


	5. It ain't easy to go to heaven

___**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

******Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

******Chapter 5: It ain't easy to go to heaven when you're going down**

(Chapter title from 'It Ain't Easy' by David Bowie)

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Over the next few weeks, John went to Pierre almost like clockwork. Sherlock was always the cause, whether directly or indirectly, for those meetings. The way in which he - damn him - bent over a corpse, his shirt undone to the third or fourth button, offering John an unaccustomed and probably unintentional view as well as a potential opportunity...

That evening, John asked Pierre to fuck him for the first time. The word was rather crude and John didn't like to use it, but it got to the heart of the matter quite well. He lay back, his legs spread, and thought of Sherlock while Pierre gave him everything he needed. A little physical intimacy, a little indulgence, but mainly hard, deep strokes that made John forget everything … everything other than his desire, his lust, and his pleasure.

When Sherlock crawled under a shelf looking for a piece of evidence a week later, thrusting his arse up directly under John's nose... it led John back to one of those dingy hotel rooms the very same night, with Pierre on his hands and knees on the bed in front of him.

But there was something peculiar about that night. Something was different, and John slid his hand across Pierre's back, deep in thought.

Sweat.

That was nothing new.

What was new was the fact that it was a cold sweat, and that his shoulder muscles were so tense.

"Pierre?" he asked, having become unsettled. If he hadn't known any better, he might have thought this was Pierre's first time.

"Just go on," Pierre said, but something in the tone of his voice set off alarm bells in John's head. It sounded too light, too high, too shrill. "It's all right," Pierre assured him.

"It's not all right," John answered. "You don't want to."

A high-pitched laugh sounded. "That's good... as if that... you're truly … It's all right!" Pierre insisted, if somewhat disjointedly. "I want it. I do want it. Truly. It's just..."

"Yes?" John asked patiently.

Pierre took a deep breath and let his head sink down between his shoulders. "I haven't done this in a long time."

"But..." John was confused.

"It's not requested as often as you might think... and … I... usually say no when I'm asked."

"You said yes to me," John noted, unnecessarily.

"Yes, I did. It's fine … just … go slow, all right?"

John nodded silently before realising that Pierre couldn't even see him. "Lube?"

"Yes, please... there should be some in the bathroom."

In the bathroom were not only three different brands of lubricant in their original, sealed tubes, but also a handful of condoms. John tore open one of the packages, rolled the condom down over his first two fingers, and went back into the room, carrying one of the tubes of lubricant in his other hand.

Pierre was still on his hands and knees - exactly in the position John had left him in. There was still something odd going on, but John couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

He squeezed some of the gel onto his condom-covered fingers and pressed them gently against Pierre's hole.

Pierre inhaled sharply and tossed his head back. Then he whispered, "Thank you."

John couldn't say why, but right then, he felt like the biggest bastard ever.

Over the next half hour, John felt strangely removed from his body, removed from the situation. His body was sweating and trembling, and plunging over and over into the body of the other man, who arched back toward him.

Pierre hadn't been lying when he said he wanted it at any rate. He enjoyed being penetrated and even reached for his stiff member at some point in order to jerk himself off. John's body was completely into it, went through arousal and climax, but his mind was floating somewhere above it all and he didn't feel anything - other than confusion.

He kept seeing Sherlock instead of Pierre in his mind's eye, had to keep banishing those thoughts of his friend and yanking himself back down to reality. Reality was called Pierre and he was a hooker. A hooker who liked him … who was doing something for him and with him that he didn't usually do.

Did that mean something?

If so, what?

Did he even want it to mean something?

When he came with a shout, even as Pierre bit down on his knuckles and his lips so as not to make any noise, one thought loomed larger than all the rest: _I should end this. Best of all right now._

Instead he said, "Do you have time again this week?"

Pierre rolled over onto his back, and John lay down beside him.

"I could arrange it," he said with a small smile. "Tomorrow and the day after shouldn't pose a problem."

"Good," said John, wrapped one hand around the back of Pierre's neck and pulled him closer.

"Stop!" Pierre cried out suddenly, putting his hands against John's chest to keep him at a distance. "What are you doing?" he said, his tone serious and his forehead creased.

"I... I thought..."

"I don't kiss," Pierre said with decisive finality. "You know that..." he added softly, looking away.

John felt as if he'd been slapped across the face.

The words '_I'm not your boyfriend, not even your lover,_' weren't spoken out loud, but were as present in the room as if they were flashing down at them from a neon sign on the ceiling.

"I could do with a fag," Pierre said after a while, tossing John a pack. "Start one for me?"

Afterwards, John realised a light should have gone on for him that evening - no, an entire goddamned Christmas tree - but hindsight is always twenty-twenty vision...

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOO**

John really did try not to think of Pierre, to separate himself from him in his mind, in order to prepare himself for the end - to even make an end possible - but then a heat wave rolled over London, unusual as it was for the end of June. Sherlock wanted an ice-cream, so John had to go to a cafe with him and sit there with a painful hard-on between his legs, watching as Sherlock fucking _revelled_ in his iced coffee, apparently unable to simply drink it like a normal human being.

The way he dipped the waffle biscuit into the whipped cream, only to nibble off the tiniest bites... the way he licked off his spoon - over and over again … the way he sucked on the straw... It was, quite frankly, obscene. Each and every action Sherlock carried out in that cafe was begging for an NSFW warning.

John's good intentions melted as quickly as an ice cube in hell, and just a few short hours later, he was kneeling - in front of the park bench they'd gone to for their first meeting - between Pierre's spread legs, sucking, licking, and nibbling on his hard cock as if there would be no tomorrow. His own member pressed painfully against the flies of his trousers, and without even thinking about whether it were something John H. Watson would do, he opened his trousers and freed his erection. He touched himself, frantic and impatient, and moaned around the fleshy obstruction between his lips.

Pierre's hips jerked and John let him drop out of his mouth.

A disappointed sound reached his ears, but when John busied his tongue with Pierre's balls and the inside of his thighs, the noises became lust-filled gasps once again.

While John hurtled almost desperately toward his own orgasm, he didn't notice that his mouth had lingered too long on the soft skin of Pierre's upper thigh. Pierre's shocked gasp came a bit too late … a purple love bit was already visible on the pale skin.

John didn't even notice it until later, when they were getting dressed. He apologised, but Pierre waved it off.

"It's fine, don't worry," he assured John.

But then Pierre inspected the spot more closely, and an odd look came into his eyes. John noticed it, but had no idea what it might mean.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

No later than the next evening, John stood in front of Pierre again. Pierre flicked his lit cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out with his toe.

"What do you feel like tonight?" he asked, fluttering his eyes provocatively.

"Coffee," John said, short and to the point, but with a smile.

Pierre blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"

John took a deep breath. He'd thought about it long and hard. And he'd decided against it. Yet here he was, saying exactly the things he'd sworn he would never say.

"I'd like to have a coffee with you. Or a beer, if you'd prefer," John suggested.

"John..." Pierre said haltingly.

"Do you know a bar around here we could go to?" John pressed in order to cover up his own uncertainty.

"John, this really isn't a good idea..." Pierre objected, still hesitant.

"I'll pay for your time," John blurted out, only to kick himself mentally. How could he say something like that? Now Pierre was going to be insulted.

Pierre's forehead creased. "What's the point?"

John breathed a small sigh of relief. Good. Not insulted then. That was something, at least. It was time for a little honesty, it seemed.

"Let's go talk … just talk... I just want to spend some time with you," he said with what he hoped was a winning smile.

"Fine. But I really don't think it's a good idea," Pierre said. Still, he led him to a bar that was still open - if with obvious reluctance. He turned down the money John tried to hand him.

They sat across from each other at a small table and ordered two coffees. When the waitress brought the drinks, John thought he saw Pierre's hand start to move toward the sugar before he ended up simply picking up his cup.

Pierre took a sip and grimaced.

Expecting something terrible, John also took a sip of his coffee, but it tasted fine.

"French coffee is probably loads better than this stuff," John said.

"Why... Oh, yes... of course," Pierre agreed, somewhat disjointedly. "I don't drink much coffee."

"You could have ordered something else," John pointed out. "Do you want something else? I'll pay."

"No, no... it's fine," Pierre demurred and took another sip. He made another face.

John couldn't help chuckling softly.

When Pierre looked at him in surprise, their eyes met.

A tentative smile flickered across John's lips, only to become stronger when he saw that Pierre was smiling back.

Slowly, steadily, John reached out for Pierre's left hand, which was resting on the table in front of him, and grasped it firmly. After a short while, during which neither of them said anything, John lifted Pierre's hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across the tips of his fingers.

Nothing happened for several seconds. But then Pierre stiffened and pulled his hand away from John.

"All right, that's enough," Pierre said with a cold, dismissive expression.

"Pierre, I'm..."

"No. I don't want to hear it, John!" For the first time, his name didn't come out of the Frenchman's mouth sounding like a gentle _Jean_. Pierre shoved his coffee cup away. "You're not sorry, so don't pretend that you are. It wouldn't be... worthy of you." He leaned back in his chair and glared at John, his eyes burning. "So you've fallen in love with me. What's next? Flowers? Expensive watches? A... proposal?" His voice was virtually dripping with sarcasm, and John was rendered speechless. "An attempt to _get me off the streets_?"

"Pierre, I..." John started to speak until he realised he had no idea what he wanted to say.

A merciless edge appeared around Pierre's mouth. His lips pressed together into a thin line, and his chin jutted forward.

"I'm neither Eliza Doolittle nor Irma La Douce. I don't need to be saved, most especially not by you," he spat out with icy, cutting precision.

John opened his mouth once again to say something, to calm him down, when he noticed that Pierre's eyes were shimmering with moisture.

Although his posture and his words expressed nothing but anger, indignation - even contempt - his next statement was accompanied by a pained, almost yearning look in his brown eyes.

"I'm going back to France."

John wasn't able to manage anything more than a shake of his head at first. "That's rather sudden."

"For you, perhaps. I've been considering it for some time now," Pierre replied, looking away.

"Why didn't you say anything?" John asked. "Would you have told me at all?"

"Certainly," Pierre answered coldly. "I would have let a good customer like you know about it."

"A customer?" John echoed quietly. "Was I really just a customer for you? Wasn't I a bit more?"

"Yes," Pierre answered just as quietly, if reluctantly, keeping his eyes lowered. "You were."

"Stay," John said simply.

Pierre shook his head without speaking, then raised his eyes and met John's gaze. "If I stay, you'll break my heart. You'll want to kiss me and I'll let you and it will break my fucking heart!"

"Pierre!"

Pierre stood up abruptly. "Adieu, _Jean_." Then he turned around and left the bar.

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

Chapter notes: Don't worry, Pierre's secret will be revealed in chapter 7.

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**


	6. There's such a sad love deep in your eye

**_THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3._**

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 6: There's such sad love deep in your eyes**

(Chapter title from 'As the World falls down' by David Bowie)

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

It hadn't even been a week since Pierre's '_adieu'_. During that time, John only returned to that part of the city once. One of the men saw him and told him in a terrible Spanish accent that _'Pedro'_ was gone and wouldn't be back.

The other man seemed to regret the fact just as much as John did. It also seemed as if he wanted to say something else, but he bit his lip and murmured, "_Adios_," instead before returning to his spot on the corner.

But then things started to careen out of control, and John didn't have any time to sit down and think about Pierre's departure.

It all started when John came into the living room one morning. Sherlock was already sitting at the table, which was set for two - if somewhat carelessly. He had a cup of tea in front of him and was reading the newspaper.

"You up already?" John remarked, although he was secretly grateful not to find Sherlock in a state of _deshabille_ that morning; instead, he was fully dressed in shirt and trousers.

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock murmured. He continued perusing the newspaper for a little while before folding it abruptly and laying it aside. "There's still some tea in the pot."

"Thanks," John said, somewhat bewildered, but poured some for himself into the cup that stood ready. Then he went to the refrigerator to rummage for something edible because aside from tea and toast there was nothing to eat on the table. "Did you just eat dry toast again?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I haven't eaten at all," Sherlock replied. "There might be a case on."

"Oh?" John said, opening the refrigerator. "Cheese... cheese... where's the... ah, here," he muttered to himself and took out the dairy item. It was then that he noticed the bottle of champagne standing somewhat shamefacedly behind two cartons of milk and a bottle of juice - the contents of which already had a greenish hue. "Since when do we have champagne in the fridge?" John expressed his bemusement and returned to the living room, where he sat down at the table across from Sherlock.

"Since yesterday," Sherlock answered brusquely, his expression inscrutable.

John gave him a quick once-over. "You're not going to tell me what..."

"There may be a new case on," Sherlock interrupted him - oddly, repeating his earlier statement - and gestured at the newspaper. "A second skip exploded yesterday."

"Since when are you interested in exploding skips?"

"Since I believe they're just trial runs," Sherlock replied, and stopped to listen to something. "I hope you don't need to go to the clinic today, that's Lestrade on his way to tell us about the first victim."

John heard the footsteps on the stairs now too, and Lestrade came in barely a second later.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, perking up. "What did he blow up this time? An SUV? A camper?"

"An estate car," Lestrade answered and took a seat, breathing hard. "How does he do that?" he turned to John to ask.

"Don't ask me," John replied dryly. "I'm just the cheerleader."

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two men, frowning slightly. "It's obvious," he said impatiently. "The bomber - or bombers - only have a limited amount of explosives at their disposal, and no way of getting more. Therefore the two test runs with the skips. Skips, John! Not bins. They wanted to find out how much explosive material they'd need to blow up a larger sized car. Two trial runs … risky, but well thought out. Either there will be additional tests with other objects … or our bomber will stick with estate cars."

"There's going to be more?" Lestrade groaned.

"Of course there will be more," Sherlock said disdainfully. "Why else should they be so frugal with the stuff? The bomber doesn't want to use too much for his attack, he only wants to use the minimum amount necessary. Has there already been a claim of responsibility?" he asked Lestrade.

"No."

"Then we can all but rule out terrorism. No matter what flavour, and please don't start with Al-Qaeda. It's bad enough the papers are disseminating such rot."

Lestrade groaned again. "Sherlock, there were two women in that car. Both dead instantly. What now? Are we supposed to wait until he strikes again? Until there are more bodies?"

Sherlock pressed his palms together and stared into the distance, thinking. Then he said, "I need everything you've got. Everything on the car, everything on the two victims. Perhaps... but in order to recognise a pattern, we need more than a single picture."

Lestrade looked anything but happy at those sobering words, but he nodded. "Do we have a choice?"

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Two days later, two explosions mere hours apart shook the inhabitants of London. One of them deadly, the other with one victim injured so severely he wasn't able to be interviewed yet.

Sherlock and John stood before the wreckage of the second estate car. It was always the same type of car that was targeted, but each time it was a different make. The colours were all different as well. The victims likewise didn't have any similarities.

There was nothing left of the initial euphoria that always came over Sherlock when he got a new, interesting case.

John kicked a piece of aluminium away with a dejected look on his face.

The clatter made Sherlock look up. He reached the piece of metal in a few steps and picked it up.

He stared at it for several seconds without saying anything.

"The photos, John! The photos!" he cried out impatiently. John quickly handed him the envelope with the pictures of the wreckage of the other car, which he'd been carrying in his jacket pocket.

Sherlock rushed through the photos, tossing one after another onto the pavement.

"The Olympics! John! The Olympics!" With that exclamation, he pressed the piece of metal into John's hand. John looked down at it in confusion. It was a lapel pin. He turned it over to see the front. The Olympic rings.

John looked at Sherlock, puzzled. "The Olympics?"

Sherlock's eyes were shining, his cheeks pink with excitement and happiness over this lead that John still hadn't picked up on. He thrust the photos he hadn't dropped on the ground into John's face.

"They were all FOR the Olympic Games. Bumper stickers on their cars. Flags. Mascots as plush figures."

John searched the photographs of the crumpled piles of metal. Then he saw it. The remains of a bumper sticker... a corner of a flag... a partially burnt plush toy.

"Fantastic!" The word slipped out as his eyes sought Sherlock's.

Sherlock smiled. But it wasn't the normal, flattered smile that graced his lips when John expressed his admiration. It was different. Deeper. Happier. More honest.

John swallowed. He felt warm.

What was going on? Had he missed something?

Since when was Sherlock like this? Since when did he make tea for him? Why was that champagne in the refrigerator?

Before John could come to some sort of conclusion as to what it all might mean, Sherlock had taken out his mobile.

"Yes, Lestrade - it's me. I have something. We can narrow the search down. What? No. Anti-Olympic demonstrators. Yes. I..." Sherlock listened for a while without saying anything, giving John a quick smile that was underlaid by something poignant that John didn't understand yet made his heart beat faster.

John could only hope that Sherlock was aware of what he was doing to him... and he also hoped that Sherlock was prepared to take the consequences for his actions like a man. Oh God, please... let him take _me_...

But then the moment had passed, and all of Sherlock's attention focused on his phone call again.

"The lab? Oh... and... ah, I see," Sherlock said. "Yes, I'll let you know as soon as I have an idea." He rang off and put his phone away. "The lab found some interesting pieces of evidence. I need absolute quiet. John!"

"How am I supposed to do that? In case you haven't noticed, London isn't some film I can just push the stop button on."

Sherlock's gaze wandered down the busy street, stopping at a small boutique.

"There. Get everyone out of there!"

"And how exactly..." Sherlock slipped something into his hand. "Oh... yeah." It was one of Lestrade's badges. "We're both going to hell for this. Again."

"Hell? Unlikely," Sherlock replied, unimpressed. "Jail? Possibly. Go on - what are you waiting for?"

John sighed and set out to ask the customers and employees of the boutique to clear the premises for a moment.

It took a little while, but then Sherlock had the whole shop to himself while John tried to answer the curious questions of the customers and employees as vaguely as possible.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock stormed out the door, his brain clearly running a mile a minute. Before John could even properly react, Sherlock had hailed a cab and yanked the door open.

"John! What are you waiting for!"

John shook off his temporary paralysis and got moving.

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

"Well? Where are we going?" John asked once the cab drove off with them inside.

"Docklands," Sherlock answered curtly, tapping away on his phone at the same time. "I know where the bomber's workshop is."

"The lab?" John took a stab in the dark. "Fibers or some other residue on the bomb?"

Sherlock flashed him a quick smile of acknowledgment. "And it only occurs in this combination in one particular spot of the city harbour. Oh..." He held his phone out for John to see. "Message from Lestrade. We have a picture of our presumed bomber."

John studied the picture. A run-of-the-mill face. Male, white, approximately forty years old.

"Name? Address?" he asked.

"Lestrade's already on his way to his flat," Sherlock said with a satisfied expression. "Another team's on their way to his place of work."

A short while later, they arrived at their destination - a defunct side canal at the harbour.

"A decommissioned coal transfer site," Sherlock explained. He paid the taxi driver, and the car turned around and drove off.

John looked around. On their right was the canal, the water stinking drearily in the summer sun. In front of them was a partially collapsed brick wall - apparently part of a building that had been demolished in the meantime. And to their left were several sheds, some of them connected, as well as a two-storey concrete building. It appeared to be abandoned but was still more or less in one piece.

Sherlock strode directly to the building and pressed down on the door handle. "Open..." he said, frowning slightly.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. A text message. He took the mobile out and read it.

"Sherlock..." he called out a warning. "Sherlock - Lestrade... the bomber... he's..."

"He's here," Sherlock hissed between his teeth.

At the same moment, a shot whistled by John's ear.

"Sherlock!"

The shot had come from a window in the upper storey. John ran through the open door with Sherlock, as the building offered them the best cover at the moment.

Both men needed a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the gloomy semi-darkness of the building's interior after the bright sunlight outside.

But then they both saw it at the same time.

In the middle of the room.

A workbench.

A demolition charge.

A timer.

A display.

Red numbers.

03...

02...

01...

No time to run.

No time to dive for cover.

No time...

The last thing John felt were Sherlock's arms dragging him down to the floor and Sherlock's body falling on top of him, heavy and protective.

Then the explosion.

Deafening.

Heat.

A shock wave.

Shards of glass.

Chunks of stone.

Dust.

Then... silence.

John blinked.

Oh. The sky.

There had been a ceiling there moments before.

He blinked again.

Half of the building had caved in.

A cough tickled the back of his throat, and he tried to sit up. Grey dust trickled out of his hair and burned his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock... you're heavy." John knew he was shouting, but that didn't matter. Sherlock was just as deaf from the explosion as he was.

But Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock?"

A terrible suspicion came over John, and he pushed and pulled until Sherlock rolled off him and lay beside him on his back, his eyes closed. John struggled into a sitting position and knelt beside his friend.

His face had been protected, so it looked the same as it always did. But, like John, his hair was covered in a grey powder from the dust that the collapsing building had stirred up.

The contrast of the grey hair with his young, slack face made John's heart contract painfully with an ominous sense of foreboding. His hand trembled as he pressed his fingers against Sherlock's neck.

Pulse?

Thank God. Weak, but regular.

Respiration?

John bent down closer, held his ear close to Sherlock's lips, and watched his chest.

Yes. Rising and falling. Shallow breaths perceptible.

He sat up again to feel the back of Sherlock's head, his hands shaking. He felt something warm and wet.

He lifted his hands and stared at them in shock. They were red, stained with Sherlock's blood.

"Sherlock!" John screamed frantically. "Dammit, Sherlock!" At the same time, his hands flew around, feeling for his phone. He'd just had it before the explosion! Trousers? No. Jacket? Inside pocket? No. Fuck! Outside pocket? Finally!

He pushed the wrong buttons twice before he got emergency services on the line.

"An ambulance! Now!" he yelled into the phone and gave the address. Then the doctor in him took over and he was able to give the woman on the other end all the necessary information.

"Adult male, unconscious. Pulse and respiration weak but regular. Bleeding from the head. Presumed internal injuries. Caused by an explosion. Yes, an explosion. No, I know bloody well what I'm talking about! Now hurry!" John ended the call as soon as he saw Sherlock's eyelids fluttering.

God, he was so pale.

"Sherlock..."

"John..." Sherlock murmured, his voice barely audible, and opened his eyes. He took a while to focus, but then he looked John directly in the eye.

John's throat closed off.

"John..." Sherlock whispered again.

"Yeah, Sherlock. I'm here," John said hoarsely. "Don't … don't talk. Just lie still. I'm... I'm here." He laid his left hand against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock lifted his right hand slowly toward his head.

"Sherlock... don't..." John said softly.

But Sherlock wouldn't be put off. He kept going until he was able to touch John's hand. His fingers wrapped around it with surprising strength, and he lifted it enough so he could turn his head and brush a kiss onto the palm of John's hand.

He let go right afterwards and let his own hand drop listlessly to the ground.

Then he smiled.

John thought his heart was going to stop then. He'd never seen someone smile like that before.

There was so much contained in it that even the Mona Lisa's world famous smile seemed like some kind of poor joke in comparison.

Sadness.

Tenderness.

Yearning.

Knowledge.

Secrets.

Contentment.

Love... Really? _Love_?

John wasn't sure. But he did know one thing.

The overarching emotion was _regret_.

"Sherlock... my God..."

Sherlock's eyelids flickered, trembled, and closed again. The smile disappeared.

Fear, terrible fear, extended its claws toward John's heart.

He felt for Sherlock's pulse in his neck again, his fingers numb.

There was only a weak flutter.

Sherlock's image swam before him, and John realised he had tears in his eyes.

From a distance, he heard the sound of sirens approaching.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_To be continued..._


	7. Don't tell me truth hurts

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 7: Don't tell me truth hurts, 'cause it hurts like hell**

(Chapter title from 'Underground' by David Bowie)

It was evening by now, and John was still sitting in one of the lounges at the hospital Sherlock had been brought to.

They'd taken one look at him and whisked him off to surgery immediately without him ever regaining consciousness.

At some point, Lestrade had come by and told John they'd found the body of the bomber in the ruins of the building. John honestly couldn't have cared less. Lestrade had clapped him somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder, muttered something about paperwork, and left. There had been a tear-filled call from Mrs Hudson and a curt text message from Mycroft. '_Request immediate information on his condition_', it had said. John thought about the fact that Sherlock had once told him Mycroft preferred to call. Did Mycroft have another dentist's appointment? Or perhaps he wanted to avoid his voice betraying to anyone how worried he was about his little brother.

Two hours after they brought Sherlock in, a doctor approached John and told him everything had gone well and Sherlock was out of danger, and...

But John stopped listening at that point. His relief was too great following the hours of worry and fear for him to process anything more than the fact that Sherlock was going to be all right.

"He'll come out of it sometime in the next hour or so," the doctor said. "It was only half as bad as it looked. You can go see him once he's awake... but perhaps... would you like to clean up a bit first?"

Clean up? John looked at the doctor in bewilderment.

The other man smiled sheepishly. "It's just... you do have half a house in your clothes and hair. You can use the toilet right over there."

It was only then that John noticed all the dust still sticking to him from the explosion. He simply hadn't thought about it before.

"Thank you," he said, standing up. "I will."

The doctor nodded at him and left. John went into the toilet and checked himself in the mirror, only to flinch back at the sight. There was no way he could go see Sherlock looking like that!

He took off his jacket, sending up a cloud of dust that gave him a coughing fit. He shook it out, turning his head to the side, until it looked halfway presentable. He knocked the dust out of his trousers with his hands and wiped at them half-heartedly with a few damp paper towels. Then he stuck his head under the faucet and washed his hair with the hand soap. The hot-air hand dryer served well as a substitute for a blowdryer, and fifteen minutes later, John left the toilet feeling more or less presentable.

He sat down in the lounge again and sent texts to Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft with an update on Sherlock's condition. Then he had to wait another hour before an orderly came to take him to Sherlock's room.

John noted with silent gratitude that it was a private room. Mycroft must have had a hand in it.

He went over to Sherlock's bed and sat down on the chair that had been placed at the ready on Sherlock's left.

Sherlock was lying on his back, utterly still. His eyes were closed and a blood pressure cuff was attached to his right arm. An IV bag dripped slowly into a line leading to the port in the back of his left hand. His right hand sported another port, although it was closed at the moment and not in use.

A pulse oximeter was clipped to his left index finger, and his head was wrapped in bandages. He was pale, and lying there in the ridiculous light blue hospital gown beneath the snow-white sheets, he looked very young and fragile.

John's heart contracted at the sight, and he had to pull himself together so as not to give in to the temptation to hold Sherlock's hand. He would have liked very much to feel with his own hands that Sherlock had survived, that he was alive, that his blood was flowing through his veins again rather than dripping his life out uselessly onto the crumbling brickwork.

"Get me out of here, John. These doctors are all idiots," Sherlock said. The words came so suddenly and his voice was so strong that John started.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but a tired smile played on his lips. "How long were you going to sit there without saying anything?"

"Sherlock... I thought you were still asleep," John answered with a lopsided smile, even as he forced his heart to calm down.

"How am I supposed to... with this blasted thing!" Sherlock cursed, and as if on command, the blood pressure cuff inflated itself with a series of loud noises.

John smiled. He was all too well acquainted with the various - oftentimes minor - hurdles on the path to a full recovery.

"I know... but you just have to grin and bear it." John felt around in his trouser pocket. "Here... they gave me your phone, your wallet, and your keys." He laid them on the little table next to the bed. "I hope there's nothing missing. If there is... then it's either buried under half a house, or there are some fingersmiths here in the hospital. I guess they couldn't save your clothes. But I can get something from the flat," he offered. "Maybe your striped pyjamas? Would that cheer you up?"

Sherlock gave him such a disgusted look that John burst out laughing, sending a wave of deep relief through him.

"It would cheer me up not to be in this hospital any longer," Sherlock complained, but then he changed tacks abruptly. "Get me out of here," he begged, favouring John with his best puppy dog eyes.

"You're going to have to make it through at least one night. You might have concussion..."

"I don't have a single broken bone in my body. The head injury was superficial," Sherlock objected as he tried to sit up. "Why should I … Ow! Damn."

John smirked. "Exactly. That's why you're staying a while longer. What was it?"

"Nothing, just the incision from the endoscopy. Supposedly my spleen was ruptured, but that turned out to be a misdiagnosis," Sherlock grumbled.

"Oh?" John's curiosity as a doctor was aroused. "Let me see. Maybe the bandages slipped."

"What? No. It's fine. The bandages are fantastic," Sherlock answered with a hint of panic.

John gave him a hard look. "Forget it. I know you. You've been picking at the bandages. Let me fix it."

"No."

"Sherlock! Stop acting like a three-year-old and let me check your bandages!"

"No!"

"Sherlock! Bloody hell!" John ran out of patience. He reached for the cover and yanked it aside. Sherlock tried desperately to hold onto it, but he was still too weak and had to let go.

"It's nothing. Everything's fine. I can ring for a nurse if you insist."

"Don't be silly," John said, moving the cover out of the way.

"John... don't..." Sherlock said so despondently that John looked up at him in surprise.

"Sherlock... what's got into you? Believe me, I've seen more than enough naked men in my life. It's no big deal." John shook his head, not understanding Sherlock's problem, and directed his attention to Sherlock's lower abdomen.

The bandaging really was fine. Why had Sherlock put up such a fuss? John's gaze wandered a bit lower. Was there some embarrassing tattoo or a piercing he wasn't meant to see? But aside from the fact that Sherlock obviously shaved down there and - just as obviously - had neglected to do so for a while, as his pubic hair was coming in as short black stubble … there was nothing special that he could see.

John's eyes slid further down Sherlock's legs - there was another bandage on his left knee, presumably from an abrasion - when he saw it.

The thing Sherlock had wanted to hide from him at all costs.

The thing he wasn't supposed to see.

John inhaled sharply through his teeth. The world seemed to hold its breath for a moment. The seconds dribbled slowly into the stillness in the same rhythm as the fluids from the IV dripping through the tubes into Sherlock's body.

"This is precisely what I wanted to avoid," Sherlock said hollowly.

"What is that?" John asked, his voice oddly flat. He pointed at the purple spot on the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

"I bumped into the... kitchen table."

"Sherlock, I'm not stupid. That's not a bruise. That's a love bite. I want to know how it got there!"

"Hoover...?" Sherlock suggested.

John fell silent, his gaze focused on the spot, which had already begun to fade.

Silence. Nothing. Then...

"John, I didn't want you to see it. I didn't want you to find out this way. I... didn't want you to ever find out," Sherlock broke the silence. His words were urgent and rushed, and he almost sounded like he had a guilty conscience.

"You... _Pierre_... _you_? I can't... That was _you_? The whole time? THE WHOLE TIME?!" John shouted, beside himself.

"John..."

"Tell me it's not true!"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he was ready to confess - and hoping for absolution.

"I was Pierre. But Pierre is gone. He told you good-bye. He did his duty."

"Do you have any idea what you've done? What you did to me? I was about to..." John scrubbed both hands through his hair. "I liked him!"

"I know. That's why..."

"You betrayed me. You took my feelings and... You manipulated me! The whole _fucking_ time!" John stopped in horror as a dreadful thought came to him. "The banana. THE BLOODY BANANA! And all the rest of it! You got me all worked up on purpose! How could you be so cold, so... unfeeling? The _entire_ time! How could you?!"

"The banana was a coincidence," Sherlock tried to appease him. "But I admit, the rest... it was an experiment of sorts... and I was only able to go through with it because I distanced myself … had to distance myself … It was only as Pierre that I could allow..."

Sherlock didn't see John's fist coming. It impacted the pillow mere inches away from his head. He flung his eyes open wide only to see John standing over him. He was breathing hard, his pupils huge and as dark as night, and he had spots of high colour on his forehead and cheeks. The skin around his mouth was pale, however, almost white. Not a good sign.

"Don't make me do something I'll regret later," John croaked hoarsely and took a step back.

"John... I only wanted to..."

"I know what you wanted," John spat out, his contempt clear. "I hope you had your fun."

"Yes, I did... but..."

"Sherlock, you still don't get it, do you? You abused my trust. You abused ME. There's no excuse for that."

"John..."

"No, Sherlock. That's it. I... I'm packing my things... and..."

"John!" Sherlock started to panic. John was going to leave? He wanted to leave him? He couldn't - he wasn't _allowed_ to! "John, let me explain!"

"For what? What would it change?" John said dully. There was an emptiness in his eyes that made Sherlock shrink back. "What's done is done. You can't take it back."

"John, listen! You have to listen to me! If you'll just listen, you'll understand..."

John shook his head. "I think you've exhausted my capacity for understanding your way of seeing things." And with those words, he turned around and left.

"John!"

"JOHN!"

But John didn't come back.

Sherlock briefly considered ripping out all the needles, tubes, and other equipment from his body and running after him, but then he realised that wouldn't change anything. John had decided to leave him, and John stuck to his decisions with the stubbornness of a rhinoceros.

He'd lost him.

As if in a trance, he groped around on the little nightstand beside the bed for his phone.

He typed - _Get me out of here. S. _- Then he sent the message to his brother.

Sherlock realised too late that the stakes he'd gambled with were too high.

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_

End notes: I did some research, and depending on the size and depth of the hickey, it can take anywhere from 3 to 14 days to go away. So I figured it's plausible in the context of this story and given Sherlock's pale skin that John could still see the love bite after a week.


	8. You sold me illusions

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 8: You sold me illusions**

(Chapter title from 'Cracked Actor by David Bowie)

Mycroft did his best to get Sherlock out of the hospital, but he did insist that his brother spend the night there. He also arranged for a private nurse to come the next few days to care for Sherlock. Sherlock protested vehemently, but not long enough, and Mycroft got his way in the end.

"She'll be expecting you tomorrow at Baker Street," Mycroft informed Sherlock.

"Then she'll have a long wait," Sherlock replied dryly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand..."

"I'm not going back to Baker Street," Sherlock told him, almost sullenly. "At least not..."

"This doesn't have anything to do with Doctor Watson moving out, does it?" Mycroft said in a sickly sweet voice.

Sherlock remained silent.

"Here's the address of the bedsit he's staying at." Mycroft handed him a folded-up piece of paper. Sherlock stuffed it into his pocket without looking at it. "Where will you go then, if not back to your own flat?"

Sherlock regarded him coolly. "To yours, naturally."

"Naturally?" Mycroft pursed his lips. "My dear brother, there is nothing natural about it at all."

"I know." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "But I don't have a choice at the moment."

Mycroft wanted to make a cutting remark in return, but the dark circles under his brother's eyes gave him pause. If Sherlock needed somewhere to hide from Dr Watson, Mycroft's house was the best place for it. The question of why his brother wanted to hide in the first place was a mystery to Mycroft, however.

Sherlock endured three days in Mycroft's guest room before he felt well enough recovered to chase the nurse away, get dressed, and leave without telling anyone.

His outward injuries were no longer visible. The bandages around his head had been replaced by a small plaster covering the stitched-up laceration.

He didn't need to look at the piece of paper Mycroft had given him. He knew the address of the bedsit John was staying at by heart.

When he found himself in front of the door to John's room, however, he hesitated.

Would John be happy to see him?

Would he punch him?

He wasn't afraid of being hit, but it did unsettle him deeply that he - who had always been able to predict everything before - didn't know how John would react to him and what he had to say.

Sherlock looked down at his feet then thrust his chin forward and knocked on the door.

He heard a muffled "Come in!" and entered the room. He closed the door behind himself and hastily looked around.

Two windows, curtains, carpet (worn), table, chair, armchair, small television, bed … and there was John, sitting on the bed.

John.

_Not sleeping well. Bloodshot eyes. A bottle of gin on the nightstand. Half empty. No glass. Jeans, short-sleeved shirt. Wrinkled. Shoes on his feet. Night shift at the hospital. Came home two... no, three hours ago._

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" John interrupted his train of thought. He wasn't slurring his words yet, but he spoke slow enough to allow for the conclusion that most of the missing gin had been consumed over those three hours.

"You're drunk..." Sherlock remarked. His courage seeped away. John's condition was by no means ideal for what he had in mind.

"Brilliant deduction," John snorted derisively and took a drink from the bottle. "Now fuck off."

Not exactly an auspicious beginning, but it could have been worse. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Listen to me, just this one time!" he pleaded.

"Sherlock... I've been listening to you since day one. I hung on every word that came out of your mouth. God! I was such an idiot!" John shook his head sadly.

The sight caused a flush of guilt to arise in Sherlock. "John... I... I only did it... it seemed like the right thing to do!"

The look John gave him was flat, tired, and filled with pain.

"All right. Fine. Say whatever it is you want to say."

Sherlock didn't wait for another invitation, hurtling headlong into his explanation. "I had it all planned out... I felt the attraction between us... and... I didn't want to act on it. I couldn't. I'd seen all too often how friendships were ruined, how relationships were ruined because both people thought they wanted more. I wanted to avoid that mistake because our friendship was sacred to me. I wanted you though. But what would happen if something went wrong? What if it didn't work out? After a week, after a year? We never would have been able to return to the safe haven of our friendship. I may not know a lot about relationships, but that much was clear, even to me. Despite all that, I still wanted you. And I knew you wanted me too. That's why..."

"Pierre," John supplied flatly.

Sherlock nodded. Did John understand it already? Why he'd done what he did? Why he couldn't have done it any differently?

"Pierre. I invented him. For you. For me. For us. He was going to - he was supposed to - give us... an outlet … for what was between us without gambling with our friendship."

"And you honestly thought that would work? In the long run? Sherlock! That's the most hare-brained idea you've ever had. The most hare-brained idea I've ever heard of full stop!"

A cold shiver ran through Sherlock upon hearing those words. Did he not understand it after all? Or did he not want to understand?

"It seemed to be the most logical..." he started to say, but John cut him off.

"How?! How did you do it? Pierre... _Pierre_... that wasn't you! The voice, the accent … He was shorter than you... and his face wasn't as narrow... and the eyes! The eye colour! Sherlock! And what the hell did you do with your hair?!"

"A special dye. From the theatre. I dyed my hair blond and the black... that was the theatrical dye. It can be washed out with a special shampoo. I used tinted contacts for my eyes. And silicon inserts for my cheeks..." Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing. "In order to make my hair curlier, I worked in some styling mousse, and the extra curl automatically made it shorter too. I had to shave my genital area - you would have noticed that my natural hair colour wasn't blond otherwise. What else? Oh, right - voice and accent... that was the easiest part to alter. And you know I can make myself appear slightly shorter than I really am. You know that! You've seen it often enough!"

John shook his head. Defensive, disbelieving.

"I still don't believe it... It was so... real," he said, his voice betraying his reluctance. "You … _Pierre_ was a smoker! But I never smelled anything on you. I would have smelled it if _you_'d been smoking!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shake his head. "You never saw Pierre smoking."

"Of course I did!"

"No … you didn't," Sherlock insisted.

John stopped to consider. "You always had a cigarette in your hand..." he said slowly.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But you never saw more than that. I never inhaled, I never even lit it myself. I always had someone else start it for me... I even had you do it for me once."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! All that... all that trouble!"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "It got faster after the fifth or sixth time. You get into a routine."

"But how... how did you know? How in the world could you have known?"

"Homeless network."

"You had me followed?!" John cried in outrage.

"No, no," Sherlock rushed to assure him. "It wasn't like that. I simply received a report of where you … where you always went for a walk. It was pure coincidence that anyone saw you. Once I had the information, I did follow you myself a few times and then... then I had this idea... and I developed the plan..."

"And how long did you hang around there waiting for me?" John asked dully.

"Three days," Sherlock answered. "It was fairly easy to guess your intentions at that point. One of the men, Ramon, offered to let me have the use of his flat. I left some clothing there... I was able to change into Pierre and back there. In return, I gave him the money that you..."

John began to clap slowly. An icy sensation crept through Sherlock's veins.

"Pierre truly was a role of a lifetime for you," John said with chilling detachment. "Bravo. Perfect." John left it open as to whether he meant Pierre or Sherlock's plan in general. But it didn't really matter in the end.

John's sarcastic applause set loose all kinds of contradictory emotions in Sherlock. Should he beg? Should he show remorse? Should he show how much he desired John? Should he... _God_! What was he supposed to do? He felt as if he'd been driven into a corner like a wild animal, and with the same instincts, he snatched at the first available emotion that flew through his moiling brain. Aggression.

"John... now that I think about it... Yes, Pierre was truly a triumph. Yet no one knows me as well as _you_. How could _you_ be so blind?!"

Sherlock was deeply insulted that John understood him so poorly.

He was offended that John was dumping this whole guilt trip on him, despite the fact that he'd had only the best intentions. He was hurt and insulted and so he was going to hit back. Make his reproval clear. So that he didn't have to suffer all the guilt alone. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear the entire burden himself. He knew it would break him.

"You always said yourself that I see but I don't observe! You _counted_ on me not recognising you! My stupidity, my gullibility, that was all part of your plan!" John hurled back at him.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. You _could_ have seen through it. You could have seen ME. I know that now. You _didn't want_ to see it. You _didn't want_ to know. You used me just as much..." Sherlock's voice shrivelled in his throat when he saw the blazing chill in John's eyes. He swallowed hard. Just then, it became clear to him that he'd managed to say exactly the wrong thing. His belligerence collapsed, leaving nothing but despair and regret in its wake. Was it too late to show it?

"Get out!"

"John, you have to..."

"OUT!" John got off his bed and stretched his arm toward the door. His muscles were stiff, tense, unyielding.

But Sherlock stayed where he was. He couldn't - he wouldn't - give in. There was too much at stake. He would happily admit every single one of his mistakes, but John had to understand that the only reason he'd done it was...

"John! I put an end to it because I realised that I love you!" Sherlock took a deep breath. There. It was out. He'd said it. He straightened his back and continued in a calm, steady voice, "I was ready to be myself and..."

"Leave. _Now_. Before I do something I'll regret."

Sherlock blinked, perplexed. Why was John still so upset?

"John, are you even listening to me? I wanted to... I'm _serious_. I even bought _champagne_. I was just waiting until the hickey faded... John, I love..."

"You and your genius brain, you don't even know what love is! If you really loved me, you never would have gone through this whole charade. You wouldn't have... You have no idea what you've done." He wiped his hand across his eyes. "Now leave."

A sense of finality and loss came over Sherlock. He'd bent over backwards, allowed himself to develop feelings, and even proclaimed them loud and clear, and what had all that sacrifice gained him other than pain and anguish?

That couldn't be all there was...

It couldn't be over...

Over before it even began...

"John..." Sherlock pleaded.

"_Now_."

"I just wanted to..." Sherlock tried again, his tone beseeching, but when he saw John bow his head so that he wouldn't have to look at Sherlock anymore, he understood that he'd lost.

He'd had a brilliant plan, and that plan had failed spectacularly.

He'd wanted to have his cake and eat it too... and now here he stood with an empty plate scattered with crumbs while his stomach was wracked by pangs, his entire body aching.

He'd played the game and lost.

But it wasn't just his own capital that he'd lost.

He'd lost everything.

He'd lost John.

"Good-bye," he said softly and left the room, his head hanging.

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_


	9. It's a broken heart you left me

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 9: It's a broken heart you left me**

(Chapter title from 'When I live my dream' by David Bowie)

Several days had passed since his unfortunate attempt at reconciling with John. Sherlock was still occupying Mycroft's guest room in one of the upper storeys, and spent entire days and nights staring out the window, lost in thought.

The pain he'd felt right after John's rejection was gone. That wasn't surprising, as Sherlock was currently in a state of denial. He couldn't - no, he wouldn't - believe that that was all. At the same time, he knew perfectly well that reality was going to catch up to him with blinding speed as soon as he set foot outside Mycroft's house.

And so he stared idly out the window. There wasn't much to see aside from a brick wall surrounding the property, and a small sliver of pavement passing by in front of the house. It was only possible to see that bit of pavement by leaning all the way back against the right side of the window frame and holding his head in a position that would likely be detrimental to his health after a while. Since Sherlock was pretty much sick and tired of the sight of red bricks (he'd already counted them, analysed where they'd come from, sorted them by colour, and - on one particularly tedious afternoon - named each one), he accepted the attendant pain in his neck and arranged himself so that he could observe the pavement.

When, about an hour later (after he'd already seen an undercover agent, four housewives - one of them unfaithful - nine children - dull - a solicitor who specialised in divorce and a banker with a heart problem) a very familiar figure passed through his field of vision, his heart skipped a beat.

John.

And reality caught up to him so fast it made him feel dizzy.

What was he doing here?

Was he here to apologise?

Not according to his body language.

Sherlock's heart sank, and with a bitter set to his mouth, he buried that idiotic hope forever.

He probably just wanted to turn in his keys. Cut all his ties once and for all.

Sherlock stepped back from the window and took out his phone in order to send a message to his brother, who - as he knew - was working at home today, probably in the library, which only looked out onto the garden.

_- John is here. Saw him from the window. S. -_

_- Do you want to speak with him? M. -_

God. Did he want to talk to him?! Of course he did. More than anything. But he knew John would say things to him he didn't want to hear. He couldn't handle having to suffer through another rejection. Anyway, John was probably better off without him. He'd - completely inadvertently - hurt him more deeply than he'd ever thought possible. And what was worse, he'd done it for entirely selfish reasons. He'd pursued his own desire to be happy with John. But he'd never asked what John wanted. Maybe he really didn't know what love was. He thought he'd been on the right track over the last few weeks, but maybe he'd just been deluding himself in the same way he'd deluded himself over having the perfect plan. At least he understood the concept of dignity. He wanted to end things in a dignified manner, if nothing else, and not burden John any longer.

_- No. S. -_

_- Fine. I'll take care of it. M. -_

Mycroft was good for something at any rate. If nothing else, his perverted sense of overprotectiveness toward his younger brother was useful in this...

John had looked terrible. His shoes desperately needed to be re-soled. The heels were all worn down. Sherlock recalled how small John's military pension was, and how equally small his income from his locum work was … together with the costs of the bedsit he was still staying at...

_- Give him money. He needs it. S. -_

Mycroft was just staring at Sherlock's last text when he heard loud voices through the door to the library. One of them belonged to Jerome, one of whose duties it was to turn away uninvited guests.

He didn't seem to have been entirely successful this time … but that probably had to do with the fact that Dr John Watson was no stranger to the household. Not that he'd ever been here before … there were only a handful of people alive who knew this address.

The double door was thrown open following another loud exchange.

"Where is he?!" John shouted as soon as he entered the room.

"And a good day to you as well, John. How are you?" Mycroft replied with an oily smile that revealed nothing about his emotional state.

"Sir... I'm terribly sorry," Jerome apologised to Mycroft. "He didn't want to wait." He turned to John. "I told you several times I'd see whether Mr Holmes was willing to see you."

"It's fine, Jerome. I'll handle it," Mycroft responded impassively.

"Thank you, sir. Please forgive me." Jerome nodded and left the room.

No sooner were the two men alone than John took a deep breath. "Where is Sherlock?!" he demanded angrily.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mycroft answered him, as slippery as an eel.

"Oh yes, you do! You know exactly what I'm talking about, Mycroft! You know exactly where Sherlock is."

"Have you lost him then?" Mycroft asked in an arrogant, nasal tone.

"Shit!" John cursed fervently and collapsed onto one of the luxurious leather armchairs, suddenly exhausted.

"Oh, please," Mycroft said with a sour little smile. "Do have a seat."

John sent him a brief, heated look then rested his forehead on his left hand and stared at the floor.

Mycroft finally broke the resulting silence.

"If my brother is eluding you … then he doesn't want you to find him."

John looked up, vaguely hopeful.

"You know where he is?"

"He doesn't want to see you, John."

"God!" John groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. "Fuck!"

Mycroft's grimaced as if he found the whole affair slightly wearisome. "I would offer you a cognac to calm your nerves, but I believe you already have enough alcohol in your system. Nonetheless, I do ask that you modulate your manner of expression in my house, at least somewhat. By the way... how did you manage to discover my address?" Something akin to interest flickered in his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know," John replied, thrusting his chin forward in challenge.

"A man of mystery and surprise." Mycroft smiled malignantly. "Fine. I won't toss you out right away. What do you want from Sherlock? And what happened anyway?"

John's face took on a look of astonishment. "You don't know?"

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "My brother prefers to keep his own counsel on the matter."

"But... you... know about everything else?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Naturally I know that he made the mistake of getting involved in some sort of emotional entanglement. And naturally, something went wrong. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here insulting my nose with the stench of gin - and a cheap gin too, I might add. So then - whatever has he done that you imagine hurt your precious feelings? And why ever have you overreacted in such a manner that he's crawled into his shell until God only knows when he's going to come out again?"

A cool, expectant, calculating, and very severe gaze was directed at John, giving him a sudden case of goose pimples. Why was it always so easy to forget how dangerous Mycroft was?

"It wasn't my fault, all right?" John protested heatedly. "So stop looking at me like it is! Don't think I wouldn't dare to pop you one, Mycroft." No matter the danger. He wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"I'm aware you're entirely capable of it. I'm not known for underestimating my opponents," Mycroft remarked coldly. "I would simply like to know which of the two of you bears the greater responsibility for this entire mess so that I know whose legs I should have broken. You're the current favourite, Dr Watson."

John swallowed hard.

"I didn't even do anything!" he defended himself. "He … Sherlock... he..." John's voice threatened to crack, and he had to stop. "He took advantage of my trust."

"Is that all?" Mycroft asked in a bored tone.

"Yes... that... that's plenty!"

"Hm, yes... because of course it's the first time he ever did such a thing," Mycroft replied sarcastically. "How often did he slip something into your drink? How often did he manoeuvre you into a situation under false pretenses that you never would have agreed to? How often..."

"Yeah, okay. That's enough. I get it!" John hissed. "But this time he went too far."

"Because _emotions_ were involved? Good heavens!"

"You say it as if it were something indecent." 

"Everything ends at some point, Dr Watson. All hearts are broken. Emotions... are not an advantage."

John sagged down even further in the leather armchair. Then he rubbed his hand over his face. "I don't want to let it end like this. I have to see him one more time … our last meeting wasn't exactly under the best circumstances. But he... won't answer his phone... he doesn't reply to texts..."

Mycroft gave him a searching look. The silence ticked on for several seconds until Mycroft seemed to come to some sort of decision.

"If... and I do mean IF … I can convince him to see you... what would you say to him?"

John lifted his head and stared at Mycroft, his eyes round. "I... I don't know," he answered, surprised.

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," said Mycroft. "Oh... yes... there's one other thing. He asked me to give you some financial assistance. Your bank account will..."

"What is this? Some kind of severance pay? A parting gift? Am I being paid off?" John demanded angrily.

"He's concerned about your welfare," Mycroft said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "And I shall heed his wishes. Your bank account will be well stocked for the forseeable future. Within reason, of course."

"Sherlock's concerned..." John bit his lip. "He's here, isn't he?"

"Good-bye, Dr Watson. I hope I don't need to show you out."

"No. I can find it. I... He really doesn't want to see me?"

"No. And I shall respect that wish as well."

John nodded. "Yeah... that's... all my fault, I guess. I should … I shouldn't have..."

"Dr Watson?"

"Yeah?"

"Please leave my house now."

"Yeah, right... sorry for the... intrusion..." John nodded at Sherlock's brother in parting and left.

Mycroft followed him with his eyes and sighed. The good doctor was limping again.

As soon as the door closed behind John Watson, Mycroft heard a noise behind him. He turned around.

Sherlock was suddenly standing there in the hidden door at the back of the room, wearing a silk dressing gown, t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms. Loosely dangling from his right hand - which hung limply beside him - was an empty syringe. A thin red rivulet was visible dripping down his other wrist.

"Is he gone?" Sherlock asked in a thin voice that seemed to come from far away.

Mycroft was beside him in a few strides, fury written all over his face. Anyone else would have flinched back in horror at the sight, but Sherlock just blinked at him listlessly.

"Where did you get the cocaine?!" Mycroft shouted at him, beside himself.

A bitter smile flitted across Sherlock's lips, but he remained silent.

Mycroft's eyes were sparking with anger as he grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown with his left hand and slapped him across the face twice with the back of his right hand.

Blood oozed out of the right corner of Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft wore a small signet ring, the sharp corner of which had cut his lip. He licked the blood away with his tongue. His eyes remained unresponsive. He hung there in Mycroft's iron grip without offering any resistance. The syringe had slipped out of his fingers and now lay disregarded on the floor.

"Where did you get the cocaine?!" Mycroft yelled again. "I gave my staff strict orders..."

"As if your stooges could prevent me from doing anything..." Sherlock interrupted him contemptuously.

"How much do you have left?" Mycroft demanded, shaking him. "How much?"

Sherlock returned his blazing-icy gaze with scorn, but remained silent.

Mycroft slapped his brother across the face again, on the verge of losing control.

"I didn't pull you back from the abyss all those years ago only for you to start up again now and end up in the gutter!" He slapped him again, dragged him away from the open door, and shoved him up against the wall. His left hand released its hold on Sherlock's dressing gown, closing around his throat instead. "Where have you hidden the rest?! WHERE?!"

Sherlock took all of it without a word. The slaps, the screaming. Only now did a spark flare up in his deadened eyes; only now did he rear up and strain forward against his brother's grip.

"Yes! Hit me!" he screamed. "Beat me! That's all you know how to do. You're just like HIM," he blurted out in a wild, choked voice. "I know you always wanted to be like Mummy, but you're not!" Sherlock paused for a moment and regarded his brother with open disgust. Mycroft unconsciously relaxed his hold on Sherlock's neck and stared at him, his eyes big and round. "You... you're nothing but a mirror image of Father!" Sherlock hurled at him in accusation. Mycroft's hand slid limply down Sherlock's chest. "Our father! He never did anything but... He never... never..." Sherlock's furious denouncement crumbled from one moment to the next. His shoulders hunched inward and he buried his face in his hands and began to sob bitterly.

Mycroft hesitated at first, but then he gathered his weeping brother awkwardly in his arms. Sherlock, on the other hand, displayed no such reluctance. As soon as he felt the comforting embrace, he clung to his brother like a drowning man, buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder and let the tears flow.

When the sobs lessened somewhat, Mycroft said in an earnest voice, "I can have him eliminated if you'd like."

"John?" Sherlock sniffled.

Mycroft nodded. "It will look like an accident. A single word from you is all I need."

"You'd do that?" Sherlock asked.

"He hurt you," Mycroft said simply.

"No." Sherlock shook his head firmly. "That won't be necessary. He shouldn't pay for my... foolishness."

"All right," Mycroft said lightly. "As you wish."

Sherlock lifted his head and slowly extracted himself from his brother's arms. He leaned back against the wall.

"I've ruined your suit," he then said with a hint of regret.

Mycroft glanced at his right shoulder. "It's not the only one I own. I have more. Don't worry," he answered, unconcerned. "You can't stay here forever, though. Will you return to Baker Street?"

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, his gaze empty. His arms hung down feebly at his sides, his palms flat against the wall.

"John really doesn't live there anymore?" he asked softly.

"He's still living in that bedsit. He's put all his things into one of those storage facilities," Mycroft told him.

"You're well informed - as always," Sherlock said. "Yes. I'll go back. Where else can I go?" he concluded bitterly.

"And the cocaine?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling. "I have enough for two more hits." He lowered his gaze then fixed his brother with a look filled with chilling conviction. "I am going to stay here one more week. During that time, I will do both of them. Neither you nor anyone else will stop me."

"And then?"

"Then..." Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner. "Then I'll go back to Baker Street. Back to my tedious, meaningless, tiresome, empty life."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft said uneasily.

Sherlock erupted in slightly hysterical laughter, unsettling his brother even more than the cocaine stash.

"Don't worry, Mycroft! I won't bring shame on the family by committing suicide. I'll continue living this accursed life until the Almighty sees fit in his everlasting wisdom to call me back." A broad, almost manic grin split his face.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, terribly blasphemous." Sherlock spat the word out with scornful cheer. "You can put in a good word for me with the archbishop the next time you have your bridge night. Next Thursday, isn't it? He cheats, by the way."

Mycroft sighed. "I know..."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...**_


	10. If you should fall into my arms

_**THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF MY GERMAN FANFIC "Wo du schon glaubst, da denk ich noch". Translator was the wonderful SwissMiss – you can find her on Ao3.**_

**Reason goes before a Fall**

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Chapter 10: If you should fall into my arms, trembling like a flower**

(Chapter title from 'Let's dance' by David Bowie)

Sherlock stood in front of the door to 221 Baker Street. In one hand, he held a duffle bag with the clothes Mycroft had arranged to be brought for him from the flat.

He looked up at the outside of the building, his heart empty. Then he unlocked the door and went inside. He heard Mrs Hudson's light steps almost right away.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed and enveloped him in a surprisingly strong embrace for such a slight person. He wrapped his free arm around her and briefly returned the gesture before pushing her away.

"Oh, Sherlock - what a mess you've got yourself into this time!" Mrs Hudson sighed, giving him a compassionate smile. "How are you doing? Are you sure you're all right? You look pale. Have you not been eating again?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, forcing his lips into a mollifying smile. "Perhaps a bit wobbly..."

"You poor dear..." Mrs Hudson hesitated, and Sherlock steeled himself for the inevitable. "John... I mean... do you think... will he be back?"

Sherlock shook his head, biting his lip. "He won't be coming back. I don't just think that. I know it."

"Oh, Sherlock! How can you say that?" Mrs Hudson cried in dismay.

"Because I made sure of it myself," he said bitterly and went up the stairs.

"Shall I bring you up something to eat later?" Mrs Hudson called hopefully up after him.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock called back, neither stopping nor turning around. He slowly approached the door to their … no, to _his_ living room. He dropped the bag and went inside.

His attentive gaze flicked around the room. Took in every change, stored it, catalogued it, compared it to his memories.

John's laptop was gone. The furniture stood in slightly different positions. The room looked as if it had been tidied; it was mostly the same, and yet everything was different. When Sherlock finally hit upon the right words for it, he shivered: the space felt like no one lived there; abandoned.

Sherlock went into the kitchen and opened the drawers and cupboards. John's mug was gone. The one with the emblem of the Northumberland Fusiliers. But his other mug, the one with the colourful stripes - that one was still here... Sherlock had bought it for him because he'd used John's original mug (the ugly, spotted one) for an experiment and it had broken.

Sherlock smiled wanly.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

It wasn't until two days later that he gathered up the courage to go up to John's old room. When he finally opened the door, he stood forlornly on the threshold and stared at the bed, made with military precision, the open wardrobe with the empty shelves inside, the cleared-out dresser, the bare walls where John had removed his pictures and photos. Sherlock could just barely smell a remnant of John's aftershave. And soon that would be gone too.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

The worst days were the ones when the kitchen floor would creak by itself - as they tended to do in an old house like that - and Sherlock would look up from his laptop or his violin and say, "Just a cup of tea for me John, thank you," only to remember that John wasn't there anymore.

On days like that, he often went and stood in the doorway to John's room for hours, staring forlornly at the precisely made bed, the empty cupboards and shelves, and the bare walls with the nails sticking out where pictures used to hang.

He didn't take on many cases; only a few from his web page, and only those he didn't have to leave the house for.

Lestrade sent over two requests for help, but he turned them down. He didn't even bother answering the questions regarding his health.

Sherlock knew he was well on his way to becoming a bitter old man, but there was nothing he could do about it.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

John didn't drink anymore. It didn't help anyway. The gin couldn't drive away the loneliness that came over him every evening when he went back to his room at the bedsit after his shift at the clinic. It also couldn't replace Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had done something unforgivable to him. Sherlock, who was still his best friend. Sherlock, who he wanted... no, _had_ wanted. John sighed. Who was he kidding? He still wanted him. He'd always want him. But how was he ever supposed to forgive him for using that desire against him, for playing him with it? And not just the physical desire... no... John could have dealt with that. But what he felt for Sherlock wasn't just physical... what he had felt … or still felt? He wasn't sure himself anymore.

John received text messages at irregular intervals. They were always from Mycroft and they always said the same thing.

_- Do you know what you would say to him now? -MH. -_

No. John still didn't know.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

One Thursday afternoon (or maybe it was a Wednesday, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure), he was lying on the couch in his pyjamas and a dressing gown, plucking at the strings of his violin when he heard a woman's footsteps on the stairs. He assumed it was Mrs Hudson. He sighed in annoyance. She'd just forced him to eat three days ago, and she'd started up again about it this morning.

"Mrs Hudson! I'm not hungry! I don't care whether it's roast beef or chicken soup, I don't want it!" he bellowed rudely without looking up.

"Oh... erm... I'm not Mrs Hudson," said a voice that Sherlock knew all too well. He turned to the side in surprise to look at his visitor.

"It's me... Molly." She smiled shyly. She became even more uncertain when Sherlock didn't react beyond staring at her, his eyebrows drawn together. "Molly Hooper," she added, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

"I know who you are, Molly. Why are you here?" Sherlock asked in a dismissive tone.

"Oh... I... I heard you were home again," Molly answered nervously. "And so... so I thought I'd just pop by."

"Why?"

"To see how you are," Molly explained. "I have a present for you." She held out a package wrapped in blue paper.

Sherlock barely glanced at it. "I don't need a new magnifying glass," he said shortly. Then he stood up and went over to her.

"Molly, I am going to do you a favour."

Hope and anxiety flared up in Molly's eyes when she looked at him. "You are?" she asked, her voice trembling and unsure.

"I'm going to save you some time."

"Time?" She blinked up at him, her cheeks glowing pink although she didn't understand what he meant.

"It's obvious that you're in love with me."

"Sherlock!" she protested quietly, lowering her eyes in embarrassment.

"Give it up," he said bluntly. "There's no point."

Molly lifted her eyes and stared at him, her mouth open. "What?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"Molly, we're not a couple and we will never be. Put it out of your mind. The sooner the better. Your feelings for me are a complete waste of time. I will never return them."

Her eyes filled with tears. Sherlock watched her in a detached manner.

"But... but... how can you be so sure?" she whispered in a watery voice.

Sherlock leaned down a bit, noting the fact that she shivered despite his abrasive words, and whispered in her ear, "I prefer men." Then he took a step back and gave her a bitter smile.

Her mouth formed a horrified _'Oh_!', her eyes widened, and she stared at him, stunned, still holding the present with both hands.

"But... Sherlock!" She choked out a sob before getting herself under control again. "How can you be so sure? I mean... have you even ever..." Her voice dwindled away to a whisper.

Sherlock had to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of her obstinacy. She certainly didn't give up easily.

"Yes, Molly. I'm quite certain. There's no need for additional experimentation. It would only confirm the currently available results."

Her right hand flew up to cover her mouth. A dry sob rang out, then she ran down the stairs.

"All hearts are broken..." Sherlock whispered Mycroft's motto to himself as he went to close the door. He could hear Molly's sobs from the flat below, accompanied by Mrs Hudson's comforting words.

"So Mrs Hudson knows it too now," Sherlock thought with a grim smile.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

That very same day, John withstood the temptation to buy a bottle of gin or wine after work, instead going for an ice-cold fizzy drink; it wasn't even noon yet, and it was already over 25 degrees centigrade outside. He'd had the night shift again, and felt utterly knackered.

As he went up the stairs to his room, his thoughts also wandered down strange paths. He was too tired to rein them in as he usually did.

It was a mystery to John as to why Mycroft was so interested in his affairs. Did the repeated text messages really originate in concern for his younger brother, or did Mycroft have some other motive?

Because if it were solely concern behind the texts, then Sherlock must really be in a bad way. Maybe even bad enough to relapse into his old habits? God! John didn't even want to think about it.

But should he go back to Sherlock just because his doctor's conscience wouldn't give him any rest otherwise?

And even if he wanted to go back … would Sherlock want that? After all, he was the one who hadn't wanted to see him at the end and hadn't reacted to any of John's attempts to contact him.

On the other hand... Mycroft did seem to have a certain insight into the whole situation. Taking into account Mycroft's persistence in sending John text after text, there must be some hope … even if Sherlock's attitude didn't really allow for such a conclusion.

When he reached his room, he unlocked the door, went in, and closed and locked the door behind himself.

So... there was really no doubt then that Sherlock would take him back.

Should he go back because he was terribly bored and missed the excitement of the cases?

Or should he go back because Sherlock said he... loved him?

Could that even be true?

It was true that Sherlock had probably saved his life when he threw himself on top of John and shielded him with his body from the explosion. People didn't do things like that unless they were madly in love with the other person.

At that point, John had to sit down. He collapsed onto his bed.

Sherlock really did love him.

That was the pure, unvarnished truth.

What about him?

What did he feel?

John stared up at the ceiling, and all of a sudden everything became clear.

As if on cue, his phone pinged.

A text.

_- Do you know what you would say to him now? MH. -_

_- YES, dammit. Where is he? JW. -_

_- Taxi downstairs. Driver has address. MH. -_

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Sherlock couldn't stand to stay in the flat any longer that morning. He sent Lestrade a text that said, '_Bored to death. Would even look for lost dogs. SH_' He only had to wait half an hour before Lestrade rang.

"Today's your lucky day then, Sherlock! Lost dogs aren't exactly my division, but we do have a pretty interesting murder."

"No, Lestrade. It's your lucky day today, because I'm going to solve that case for you. Give me the address, I'll take a taxi."

The taxi dropped him off shortly thereafter in front of an abandoned factory. There were several police cars there, and as always, Sergeant Donovan was standing at the crime scene tape, ready to take him up to the second floor.

No sooner had Sherlock come to the top of the stairs than Lestrade strode over to him.

"We need to hurry. We'll end up with some pretty unpleasant smells otherwise, hot as it is."

Sherlock gave him a condescending look. "Tell it to Anderson. You know I work quickly."

Lestrade laughed and asked, "Where's John, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while. Is he sick? Or on holiday? He didn't say anything, but..." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.

The totally innocent question, so utterly removed from any connection to reality, threw Sherlock completely for a loop. He'd forgot that no one aside from Mrs Hudson and Mycroft knew that John had left.

"I..." he started to say, but didn't know how to continue. What should he tell Lestrade? What words could he use so as not to arouse his pity?

The Detective Inspector's eyes were still on him. Expectant. Clueless. How could Lestrade not see it? How could he possibly assume everything was the way it used to be?

"John..." Sherlock tried again, but it was painful even to say his name. His mouth hurt just from enunciating that single syllable, the one that had fallen from his lips so easily mere weeks ago.

"John is..." he forced his vocal cords to say, but he couldn't manage any more. What else could he say? _John left me?_ No, he'd never expose himself like that in front of Donovan. Should he lie? It would all come out sooner or later, though, and then he would shot his credibility to hell. What was the point of it all anyway?

"He..." _isn't coming anymore_, he'd wanted to force himself to say, but just then he heard a quick set of footsteps on the stairs, along with loud panting.

That panting!

Sherlock's head jerked around in the direction of the sounds, which were coming closer.

John?

Could it really be John?

Mustering all the strength he could, he suppressed that tiny flicker of hope. That tiny glow in his heart. He could make it without John, but not if he kept on hoping only to be disappointed over and over again. It was probably just some overzealous sergeant bringing news for Lestrade...

JOHN! 

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

John, here, in front of him. Breathing hard because he'd run up the stairs much too fast. His eyes passed quickly over Sherlock before he turned to Lestrade.

"Sorry, had something I needed to take care of. What did I miss?"

"Not much," Lestrade answered. "Forensics is still in there taking pictures before Sherlock manhandles everything."

"I don't manhandle," Sherlock retorted automatically. "I..." His gaze flickered to John, who was acting as if nothing had happened. As if everything were the same as it always had been. As if everything were... _normal_.

They had to wait several more minutes before the forensics team were finished. During that time, John and Lestrade chatted easily about inconsequential things - like the current weather situation, which was abnormally hot even for August, and a love affair that some actor or other was involved in - while Sherlock stood off to the side a bit, failing to understand why such a completely _normal_ situation should feel like a bad acid trip.

When he was finally given access to the body, though, he managed to do his job in spite of everything else. John did what he always did to help Sherlock, and a tiny bit of the unshakeable calm he was somehow emanating seemed to seep into Sherlock as well.

It turned out that they'd need an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death. Sherlock gave Lestrade a few tips and ideas to follow up on.

The police packed up their things, the body was removed, and everybody got ready to leave.

"I'm going to have a look at the other room," Sherlock announced, adding, "John?" He went ahead, and it took an enormous effort not to turn around to see if John was following him.

The other room was identical to the one the body had been in. The same smell of dusty cement and plaster. Scraps of plastic wrapping lay in the corners. One window pane was broken and the other was opaque with dirt and filth.

Sherlock turned around, and at the sight of John, a relief flooded through him that he wasn't prepared for.

"John... where have you been all this time?" Sherlock said in his usual slightly arrogant tone to mask his unexpected feelings.

As John looked him over, Sherlock realised that the other man was getting more and more nervous with each passing second.

Then he seemed to give himself a little shove. He straightened his body, his posture became more military. Sherlock could tell that John had come to a decision.

"As I said: I had something I needed to take care of," John finally said, reaching into the inner breast pocket of his light summer jacket. "Here. For you." A blush of embarrassment rose to his face.

Not understanding what he meant, Sherlock stared at the little bouquet of flowers in John's hand and took it, bewildered.

"_Myosotis arvensis_," he murmured. "For me?"

"Yes, of course they're for you! I thought... They didn't have anything else that small in the flower shop. It had to fit in my pocket. I didn't want everyone to see it. And I thought forget-me-nots... I'm afraid they're a little squashed..."

"For me?" Sherlock repeated in shock, looking back and forth between the flowers in his hand and John's face with astonishment that bordered on reverence.

"My God, Sherlock," John laughed uncertainly. "Yes, I bought them for you. Don't you like them?"

"No one's ever..." Sherlock murmured, still in the grip of the same awestruck emotion. "John..."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John said soberly. "I acted like an idiot. Tell me..." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Can I... can I ever make it up to you?"

"It was all my fault," Sherlock said, his tone serious. "My idea. My fault. I thought I was so clever. Too clever. I thought there weren't any holes in my plan. No risk. That was … arrogant of me."

John looked at him with concern. "Sherlock? Are you all right? You don't have a fever, do you? Or did you hit your head?"

"I'm not going to say it again. Once will have to suffice," Sherlock said with a mixture of embarrassment and condescension.

John nodded. "That's enough for the time being."

"You'll... come back?" Sherlock asked with atypical hesitance, holding his breath without realising he was doing so.

"Yes, I'll come back... back to Baker Street. Back to Mrs Hudson. And back to you, you brilliant idiot! Back where I belong."

Sherlock was so relieved to hear those words that he felt weak. "Mrs Hudson will be overjoyed."

"And you?" John asked softly.

Sherlock smiled. "Ecstatic," he answered just as softly, and although he tried to make it come across as dry, he wasn't entirely able to mask the depth of his emotions.

"Fine, then..." John grinned bashfully and went to stand directly in front of Sherlock. "There's something else I'd like to ask you..."

This time Sherlock's heart didn't skip a beat; instead it started beating in a wild tattoo.

"Oh God, John... no... don't..."

John furrowed his forehead. "What? What shouldn't I..."

"The flowers... you... you're going to propose to me!" Sherlock blurted out, both horrified and touched. "God, John... by all that's holy... don't do it!"

John paused and gave Sherlock an odd look. "Let's just go through this hypothetically then," he said slowly. "If I were to propose to you... what would your answer be?"

Sherlock trembled, and he realised that John was holding him in his arms and looking up at him with that faint smile and that same unshakeable calm.

"I'd say yes," Sherlock replied, his voice rough, but without hesitation. "God help me, I'd say yes," he repeated. "John, promise me that you'll never, ever ask. I'd be a terrible husband."

"Never?" John pressed. "I'm afraid I can't promise that. Never... that's so final, don't you think?" John's grin became wider and more mischievous.

"You... you weren't going to propose at all!" Sherlock hissed when he realised that he'd fallen for it. "You tricked me!"

"Maybe a bit," John admitted without even a trace of guilt. "But I really do want to ask you something."

"What?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Whether it's all right if we..." Once again, those tell-tale signs of embarrassment appeared on John's face. "I mean... is kissing allowed now?"

Sherlock was only able to nod dumbly as he lost himself in John's sincere, earnest eyes. A hand crept around the back of his neck and pulled his head down with gentle yet firm pressure.

Their lips touched lightly, almost chastely, pressed against each other before opening automatically, just barely, a thin line, and when their tongues touched for the first time, Sherlock felt a tingling sensation that started there and spread throughout his whole body. He moaned unconsciously and opened his mouth a little further. He suckled on John's lower lip and lured him in, lured his tongue, invited him to explore, to taste, to caress. And John succumbed to the temptation, crowded his tongue in between Sherlock's lips, probed, looted, plundered, stole his breath and made his knees go weak.

Sherlock remembered what that devious tongue had been capable of doing to other parts of his anatomy, and clung even closer to John. He felt the strong, muscular arms of the former soldier around his chest, and all of a sudden everything else fell away. The pain, the emotional distress, all of his guilt... the kiss swept everything away. Erased it and healed it until Sherlock couldn't tell whose heart he felt beating so wildly in his ribcage … John's … or his own … but it didn't really matter. John had always been his heart.

Now it was John who lured him in, who played with him and tested how compliant he could be, teased him and drew him out, and Sherlock let his desire run wild, pitted his tongue against John's, fought and danced with it, sucked on it gently and felt John's groans vibrating through his entire body.

One of John's hands found its way into Sherlock's dark curls, pulled on them, bent his head back, exposed his throat, lifted his mouth from Sherlock's hungry lips and pressed a hot, greedy, very wet kiss onto the white skin of Sherlock's neck. Then they broke apart somewhat reluctantly, breathing heavily.

"That was... wow," John said softly.

"Yes, it was," Sherlock agreed, licking his lips. "Is that going to leave another mark?" He felt his neck.

"No... not yet... do you want one? Anderson would keel over dead." John grinned.

"Then of course I want one!" Sherlock grinned too.

"Why didn't you ever let me kiss you? Were you afraid I'd notice the silicon pads in your cheeks?" John asked, becoming suddenly thoughtful.

"Yes... that too. But the main reason..." Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing more quietly, "You wouldn't have been kissing _me_. It would have been _Pierre_ … and that would have broken my heart. I couldn't let you kiss _him_."

"We're really doing this all backwards," John said and grinned. "Hopeless." He shook his head.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused.

"Well... we've done all the dirtiest things already... and we've only got around to our first kiss now. It usually goes the other way round."

A cheeky smile appeared on Sherlock's lips.

"Oh no... it's all in the right order. We have the kiss behind us … and the naughty things yet to come."

"But Sherlock... that's nonsense!" John protested. "We've already..."

"No," Sherlock interrupted him. "You and _Pierre_... not you and _I_. I'm not like Pierre."

"You aren't?" John asked, swallowing hard.

"Of course not," Sherlock answered, slightly insulted. "Do you even know how hard it was for me not to kiss you while we were doing those things? Or not to say anything?"

"It would have given you away if you'd said anything?" John asked, perplexed.

"Do you think I would have been able to maintain that unpleasantly high-pitched voice while you were doing … what you did? Exactly. I decided it was better not to say anything at all, and not to make any other noises..."

"Does that mean you're loud in bed?"

"We should probably buy Mrs Hudson some earplugs," Sherlock answered as if giving it serious consideration. "Yes - I'm loud. Quite loud. And I talk the whole time. I hope that doesn't bother you."

"God!" was John's only answer. "Bother me? No... that's good. Very good, in fact. Do you know, there were times when I thought I could come just from listening to you."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "We could make an experiment out of it." His eyes were shining. "Call us a taxi. I'll use the time to refresh my dirty talk vocabulary."

"You're not serious," John said hoarsely, watching with disbelieving eyes as Sherlock took out his mobile and started surfing the internet.

"Problem?"

"Sherlock, that was just a figure of speech … that can't possibly really work," John pointed out.

Sherlock was at his side in less than a second, in front of him, surrounding him, kissing him deeply.

"Once I have you at home in my bed, I'm finally going to put those handcuffs I lifted from Lestrade a while ago to good use. I'll cuff you to the bed … naked … and then I'll take off my clothes while you watch... going very slowly. And while I tell you in great detail how much my body desires you, how much it arouses me to see your arousal... I'll touch myself and you'll have to watch... I'll tell you exactly what it feels like, how much I want it to be your hands that bring me to ecstasy..."

"Jesus..." John whimpered. Sherlock gave the area between John's legs a thorough inspection and saw the large bulge that was already outlined there.

"There you are... it does work," Sherlock grinned. "And now, _will_ you call us a taxi?"

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Later... in the middle of the night... Sherlock Holmes snuck quietly out of his bedroom so as not to awaken his lover.

He slipped into the kitchen - not having bothered to put on any clothes - and, touched by rare emotion, looked at the little bouquet of forget-me-nots slowly wilting in a water glass because they didn't have a vase.

He touched the tender petals with gentle fingers then carefully plucked out a single stem and took it to the living room. He took a single sheet of tissue paper out of a drawer and folded it down the middle. He then laid the forget-me-not into the fold. He went to the bookcase and pulled down one of the volumes. He opened the book to a certain page and placed the paper with the flower inside.

Deep fondness lay in his gaze as he closed the book again, put it back in its place, and slipped back into bed, all unnoticed. Back to the man he belonged to. Now and for all time.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**THE END**

End notes: There. That's it. *sigh* Kind of sad in a way. But that's always the way it is when something ends. But: it's not the end of the world, just the end of the story. I'll be back!


End file.
